Grotesque
by lastknownwriter
Summary: Deep in the heart of the bayou, a winged creature has paid a long and lonely penance for a tragedy history has forgotten. A fateful storm and a soldier pure of heart are about to change his world. A Dean/Castiel Beauty and the Beast AU
1. Prologue

**_Author's Notes:_**_ Beauty and the Beast remains one of my favorite fairytales. This Dean and Castiel revision or fractured retelling, will be more Grimm than Walt. I hope you'll join me. 3_

_..._

_October 19, 1813_

The water rose. It seeped over the banks, innocuous at first, a soft, rolling plunder, covering the exposed roots of the trees, climbing higher, encasing the ground moss and wet, damp sponge of earth that surrounded the bayou, until it lapped in gentle waves at the edge of the fields.

The workers moved quickly in the lashing rain, frantic, dark eyes shining in the light of the remaining oil-fed torches, whites clear and stark against their deeply hued skin. Lightning pierced the dark at regular intervals, the roar of the wind eclipsing the deep rumble of thunder.

The water was coming.

It was brackish, green and brown, the bayou, and it stank of rotting leaves and wet clay and death. As it pulsed across the cotton fields, gobbling up the ground in its path, its dank stench permeated the air.

The bayou was swallowing the world.

…

"Sir, the workers." Mr. Jameson held his hat in his hand, drenched and dripping on the marble foyer as he faced his employer.

Castiel Goodwin frowned at the dirty puddle that had gathered at Jameson's feet, wincing when a thunderclap shook the glass in the fanlight above the door. "Have they finished loading the barge?"

Jameson's lips thinned; Mr. Goodwin was a fair man, but a shrewd business owner. And Godwyne Plantation was a business. Since moving his family onto the unblemished, fertile landscape east of the Ouachita River, the plantation owner had steadily extended his holdings until Godwyne now encompassed a vast area along the horseshoe twists and turns of the bayou Barthélémy. He had recognized the suitability of the land for growing cotton and reaped the rewards for his intuitive instincts; Godwyne was the largest cotton plantation north of Fort Miro.

"No sir," Jameson said quietly.

"They will finish." Castiel lifted his gaze to the curved staircase where his daughter Clara stood, clutching a finely turned spindle, eyes widening with each deafening clap of thunder. He turned to leave, the conversation finished, but stopped when Jameson took a step.

"But sir," he stopped at Castiel's sharp look, then forged on, voice tight and controlled. "The bayou floods; even now the waters are at the edge of the fields. The crossing will be cut off in less than an hour."

"Then the road will be cut off," Castiel spat, impatient and irritable. The cotton had to be salvaged. The fortune of Godwyne now hinged, unfortunately, on the very bayou that was threatening its livelihood, the boggy waterway necessary to transport the crop to its eventual point of sale. Not a soul on the plantation, save Castiel, was aware that this was the final sale, that the Goodwin's would be leaving this land in the coming months and migrating south. Cotton had ceased to be the most lucrative agricultural crop on the horizon, and Castiel was nothing if not keen to be at the forefront of change. Perhaps unwisely, and uncharacteristically brazen, last month he had met with investors and sunk his net worth, and the future of Godwyne, into a sugar plantation two hundred miles southerly.

Payment was due.

The cotton hadto be sold.

"They may sleep in the barns." Castiel schooled his face, careful not to show Jameson how the suggestion affected him. He owned the men who labored in his fields, but he had always tried to be a fair and just owner, even assuming the unusual practice of paying bonuses in cash as a means of motivation. Privately, he foresaw the end of slavery and hoped the men who worked his fields and harvested his fortune might someday have the means to start life anew. Amelia, his wife, scoffed that the bonuses were simply Castiel's way of assuaging his guilt.

Sometimes, he thought she was right.

The barns would never hold all of the men, and the horses too, and Castiel could read the acknowledgement in Jameson's face. But it would have to do.

The slave quarters were not located on the large expanse of flat, green land in the figure-eight shaped bend in the bayou where the main house sat, nor were they visible from even the uppermost windows of the stately expanse of Greek architecture. Across a narrow dirt and native stone crossing, through the heavily wooded westerly side of the bayou, lay a neat tract of dwellings where the men slept and spent their private hours. Jameson's cottage was down a separate path through the woods.

The foreman held Castiel's cool gaze for a long moment, before nodding curtly. "Yes, sir."

The howl of the wind when Jameson pulled open the door sent a chill through Castiel's midsection. As a child in southern Mississippi he had witnessed an enormous storm that had turned the midday sky nearly emerald in hue, with a massive rope of cloudbank that lowered to the ground and swallowed everything in its path. Castiel's home had been destroyed, but the narrow lean-to that had housed his mother's chickens and a single cow had been left standing pristine, untouched.

His mother and sister had died that day, his father not long after.

He would never forget the sound of the wind as it converged upon the little log house, a sound he feared he now recognized roaring distant across the bayou. He quickly crossed to the door, throwing it open, the wind catching it in a fearsome draft and slamming it into the wall.

Clara's screams mingled with the sound of shattering glass. "Papa!"

Castiel ran across the porch and down the steps, the driving rain blinding him in the black night. "Jameson!"

He spat the water that filled his mouth. "Jameson! Wait!"

He was forced to stop, the wind and rain too brutal, Clara's cries and the pale yellow glow of oil lamp pulling him swiftly up the steps and back into the cold marble entry. He knelt on the floor beside his daughter, soaked and shivering. He pushed her gently aside when she tried to cling, not wanting to get her nightclothes wet. "Go upstairs and get into bed, Clara."

"But Papa," she shook her head, jumping at a flash of lightening. The wind whistled eerily through the pierced edges of broken glass in the sidelights of the door surround.

"Now," he said firmly and Clara's eyes filled at his harsh tone. She ran up the steps, her bare feet padding soundlessly against the mahogany treads.

"What is it, Castiel?" Father Gabriel asked from the parlor doorway. Amelia and the serving girl Cecily stood on either side of him.

Castiel forced his face into a neutral expression. "I'm afraid you will be staying with us for a bit longer than you planned, Father."

Gabriel's eyes flicked to the bits of sparkling glass on the floor, an increasing sheen of wet seeping across the marble. He nodded slowly. "Very well."

"Cecily." Amelia pointed at the mess by the door and the servant girl hurried into the depths of the house to procure, Castiel assumed, supplies.

"I think it would be best if we all retire for the evening," Castiel said evenly. "This storm will blow over and the dawn will bring a new day."

He ignored the searching look the priest gave him when he turned on his heel and started up the stairs to his rooms.

…

Cecily's scream rent the night, a piercing wail above the hurtling sound of the wind tearing at the walls of the mansion.

Castiel jumped from his bed fully clothed; some latent instinct had warned him against getting undressed for the night. Halfway down the marble stairway he stopped, staring in horror. The ground floor of the mansion was flooding, water pouring under the doorframe and through the holes punched through the sidelights. The murky water painted a deeper shade of blue along the bottom three feet of the pale silk draperies flanking the windows.

"Cecily!" He barked at the girl who stood in the center of the foyer, twisting and turning, incoherent, her bedclothes soaked. She pulled at her hair, muttering in a confused mix of French Creole and English.

He descended the remainder of the steps, sucking in a breath as the cold water soaked him to his knees. A dark flash in his peripheral vision told him Father Gabriel was on the landing. When he reached the girl he grabbed her firmly by the upper arm and dragged her back to the staircase. "Upstairs, everyone!"

The order was pointless; he and the priest were alone in the huge house with Amelia, Clara and the girl who now clung limply to his side. He gestured for Gabriel to take the girl and strode quickly to Clara's room. The young girl was sitting in the center of her bed, rocking, tears bright in her eyes, cheeks wet. The windows rattled, walls trembling against the force of the storm, and a long, groaning reverberation spurred Castiel to move quickly.

The five residents gathered in Amelia's bedroom parlor, Clara on her father's lap, wrapped in a blanket to buffer the harshest of the storm's noise. When the shutters were ripped from the windows with a tearing screech, she whimpered into his neck and he held her tighter.

"The barns will not have survived this gale," Father Gabriel said softly. "You will have lost your horses."

Castiel met his gaze and held it; both men knew the horses were not all that would be lost. He turned his head and focused on the expensive damask wallpaper lining the walls of the pretty little parlor and thought of the dozens of empty rooms surrounding them, safe from the hell the dark had yet to deliver.

This house, a safe harbor in a storm to end all storms.

Empty.

The remainder of the night was spent huddled near the fire, as the wind and the rain raged on interminably. The stench of the bayou was thick in the air and Castiel knew that all possessions on the ground floor would be in ruins. Were it not for the sheer breadth and scope of Godwyne, he was not sure the house itself might not lift from its very foundation and float down the bayou to join with the Ouachita and then on to the sea.

When the first lights of dawn broke across the eastern sky, Castiel and the priest ventured quietly down the steps, Amelia and the two younger females still sleeping. The ground floor was covered in water, but the depth had receded, perhaps two inches from its highest point as marked on the wall with a grey tinge of grime.

Castiel paused at the window on the landing, a hand covering his mouth at the devastation revealed by the new day's light.

Godwyne rose majestic, an island in a sea of mud and silt and water, no other land visible, the bayou having converged with the river to turn this narrow plain of land into a new body of water.

Father Gabriel gasped and the sound startled Castiel. His eyes followed the shaking tip of the man's finger to the edge of what would have formerly been the rose garden.

Face down, a body was floating.

Then another, and another.

And yet more, until all Castiel could see were the bodies, bobbing in the current, swept in a gentle wave past the great, marble house, as its master absorbed from a second story window the bleak consequences of his decisions in the moments before the storm.

…

It took twelve days for the water to recede.

Even then, Godwyne was cut off from whatever civilization remained in the aftermath of the storm. The narrow dirt and rock channel that had breached the bayou, providing the main house access to the rest of the world, had washed away. It would have to be rebuilt.

Father Gabriel, in a surprising show of fortitude, had proven to be handy both with carpenter's tools and in the kitchen, where supplies were now running dangerously low. He and Cecily had managed to stretch what meager foodstuffs they could salvage from the pantry until the root cellar was once more accessible. While it too had partially flooded, many of the vegetables inside were intact.

At dusk on the thirteenth day, Castiel was interrupted in his work stacking the rotting, mildewed furnishings from the ground floor for later burning by Cecily's frantic call.

"Sir. Sir!"

Castiel sighed and brushed his filthy hands on his trousers, crossing the mud-spattered floor to the doorway. Clara stood at Cecily's side, clutching at her skirts. Amelia was nowhere to be seen, but that was not unusual; she had been keeping to her rooms of late.

"What is it?"

Cecily raised her free arm, pointing. A figure crossed the wet grounds, black cape dragging through the mud behind her, deep auburn hair piled high upon her head.

"It's Apolline," Cecily whispered, frantically making the sign of the cross.

"Don't be ridiculous," Castiel muttered, squinting. "The bayou is impassible."

"Boat, mebbe," Cecily whispered brokenly, backing toward the door, taking Clara with her.

The woman continued in her sedate pace until she stood at the foot of the marble steps.

"Castiel Goodwin." Her skin was porcelain, creamy, and her lips were blood red.

Castiel felt the hair rise on the back of his neck and he resisted the urge to swipe his hand across the damp skin. "Apolline."

The voodoo priestess inclined her head with a satisfied smile. "I am honored, sir."

Castiel raised an eyebrow at the cordial greeting. Tales of Apolline's power and vindictiveness were known far and wide, and slave chatter about the priestess had carried into the big house via the fast-moving grapevine of household employees. Castiel held no personal belief in her familiarity with or power over the occult, however.

"Your family will leave here this night by boat."

Castiel frowned. "I would be most grateful for your assistance, Apolline, I thank you." He took one step closer to the edge of the porch, looming over the woman, drawn to her oddly colored amber eyes. "We are nearing the end of our supplies."

"You will remain." The smile was gone in a flash, along with the light in her eyes, and Castiel felt a cool breeze wrap around his temple before it dipped down his spine, chilling him to the bone.

"I'm afraid I do not understand—"

"Silence!" Apolline held up a graceful palm and in the heartbeat it took for her to close it into a fist, Castiel felt the air squeezed from his throat. He clutched at his neck, ripping the button free, clawing at his skin for breath.

Apolline dropped her hand and he gasped, bent over at the waist.

"Your greed and avarice are responsible for the deaths of two hundred souls."

Castiel could hear her voice, it rang in his ears, a quiet hum that filled his head though her lips never moved.

"You alone will repay the debt. One year for every soul." She cocked her head and smiled brightly. "Your family will go free."

"You are insane," Castiel rasped, throat burning, raw. His eyes watered as a peculiar sense of displacement enveloped him.

Apolline twisted her wrist and Castiel fell to his knees, crying out as pain tore through his chest.

"You are destined to remain in this house, cut off from the world you so eagerly desired to possess. One year," she stepped closer and Castiel whimpered, falling, knuckles catching against the uppermost tread before he toppled end over end to the ground.

When he lay at her feet, gasping, she smiled beatifically. "One year, for every soul."

He flinched when she kneeled. She brushed a cool, soft hand against his brow and down his cheek. He would have scrambled away, but he was frozen, paralyzed.

"You are beautiful, Castiel," she crooned. "I had no idea. Too beautiful, I fear, to suffer the fate I had planned. I am loathe to be so cruel." She traced his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, pausing before touching a single fingertip to his lips. "Shhh," she whispered, and only then did he realize the soft whine in his head was coming from his throat.

She lowered her head to brush her lips softly across his, the brief flick of her tongue wetting the seam of his mouth. Her breath was warm on his chin when she spoke. "You," she kissed him again. "Are a monster."

Her lips feathered across his cheekbone until they reached his eyes and he blinked them closed in defense.

"I cannot change what I have wrought," she said sadly, rocking back on her heels. She studied him. "But I can add to your penance, my beautiful Castiel, with the face and name of an angel."

She was on her feet and the cape fluttered in the sudden updraft. "Two hundred years is your due, and this house," she gestured, the sweep of her arm encompassing the mud-tinged grounds surrounding them. "This land, your prison. But I can be a generous lover, dear angel. And I grant you the gift of flight." She bowed her head and chanted, and Castiel's ears filled with the sound of her voice and the drone of the wind, until he cried out, grabbing his head between his hands.

"Apolline!" Father Gabriel stood at the top of the steps, a worn bible and rosary in hand.

"Cease." Apolline flung a finger in his direction and Gabriel flew against the wall of the house, head cracking against the marble, book and beads scattering across the porch. She finished her chant and smiled down at Castiel in delight. "This is your destiny, Castiel. But I have made it glorious. For you will have the wings of an angel, to match your pretty face. Alas," she squinted into the fading sun. "I cannot prevent the monster from accompanying the change. But you deserve nothing less and I am comfortable with my choices. For two hundred years you will walk, or," she laughed and the sound chilled Castiel to the bone. "Fly these grounds. With your dutiful companion." She flicked her finger and Gabriel fell to the porch.

She stepped back and Castiel gulped a fresh lungful of air as the pain in his chest and the ringing in his ears subsided. He flexed his fingers but lay still, stunned, as she continued to speak.

"In the two hundredth year, a pure soul will appear before you. Win this heart with love and compassion and grace, despite the creature you present, and the curse will be broken. You will be free to live out the remainder of your days as a man once more."

Castiel drew back when she reached for his face, finding he had regained control of his limbs. He scrabbled for purchase on the wet ground.

Apolline laughed at the futility of his movements. "Two hundred years, Castiel. With forever as your punishment should you not be found worthy."

"Father," Castiel gasped, when she turned to go, concerned for the priest who was climbing unsteadily to his feet.

"Father Gabriel." Apolline approached the porch, smiling serenely when the priest flinched backward. "You will remain with Castiel until the curse is broken. If you leave the land that this house stands on for more than twelve hours, you will die."

"I don't believe in your curses, witch," the priest ground out between bloody lips.

"And I am not a witch," Apolline inclined her head. "Time will show you the error of your logic, good sir. You are a man of faith. I trust you will be an honorable companion for our beast." She turned to leave. "Heed my warning, Father Gabriel. This land will remain a lonely and forbidding specter for the surrounding peoples from this day forward. The death that permeates this ground will be avenged."

Gabriel staggered down the steps in her wake to help Castiel to his feet. He scraped the blood from his lip. "She is nothing more than a witch doctor, Castiel, playing on the natives' fears and spreading the same as if a fungus."

Castiel's eyes scanned the edge of moss-covered cypress lining the bayou's edge, but the priestess had vanished. He shivered. "I am not worried."

But the words rang false and cold in the dusk.

…

Castiel jerked awake, dragged from a restless slumber. He blinked into the darkness and sat up. The moon was full, and when the clouds parted a sheath of silver light poured through the window, illuminating his bed. He listened intently; perhaps Clara had called out, although Amelia's rooms were closer to their daughter than his own.

He rubbed his face to shake off the last vestiges of sleep and swung his legs to the floor. His shoulder blade twitched, a nagging, biting itch, and he craned his hand behind his back, fruitlessly trying to reach it.

A sudden, excruciating pain blazed through his spine, and he cried out, falling to his hands on the bed. His shoulders, his back, his very bones were on fire and he tried to call for help, but then the skin over his scapula ruptured, releasing a jutting, mangled bone, and he collapsed on the bedcovers. Guttural, animalistic sounds were torn from his throat as his body convulsed on the bed. He bit through his lip and blood ran down his chin, the dark red dampness mirroring the wetness he could feel seeping across his back.

Another pulse of pain so hot and bright it eclipsed all thought threw him to the floor and he clawed at the hooked rug, watching in shock as his silhouette was outlined in sprays of fresh blood. His back exploded with a foreign sensation, heavy, hard, as something unnatural draped and dragged across his skin. It unfurled and fell to the rug with a sticky splat of congealed blood and tissue. He retched, spitting bile, coughing, tears leaking from his eyes when a new pain emerged, this time in his feet.

He could only shudder limply against the bed frame when the bedroom door was flung open.

"Oh holy Father, what have you done?" Father Gabriel cried.

Castiel lifted one shaking, trembling hand toward the door, in a silent plea for help as blackness sank in around him. The last sounds he heard were Amelia's hysterical screams.

…

_**Additional Notes:**_

Apolline is played by Abaddon. "Apolline", a common French Creole name, is a play on Apollyon, another name for Abaddon.

The setting for our story is loosely based on Bayou Bartholomew, which remains today largely wild and undeveloped.

The storm that ravages Godwyne is loosedly based on factual events in Johnson's Bayou, a Louisiana town that disappeared in one night in 1886.


	2. Chapter 1

Dean Winchester was not a fan of flying.

If he _were_ a fan of flying, he wouldn't be stuck on the side of a cracked and broken two-lane blacktop in backwater Louisiana trying in vain to find the _fucking_ highway on the tiny maze of swirling lines on this _fucking_ useless map.

He shoved the thick paper aside, barely containing the urge to crumple it into a tight little ball, and flicked the wipers as high as they would go, the wands slicking across the thick swath of rain that pounded the windshield. Visibility was nil, the downpour now obliterating the road in the darkness. He eased off the brake and gently pushed the accelerator, maneuvering the car back into what he hoped was his lane, although he suspected if it wasn't, he wouldn't know until it was too late to course correct.

The Impala might be a gorgeous classic, but nimble she was not.

He hit a pothole and winced when the big, black car bounced across the wet pavement, steering wheel jerking on a hard left under his hands.

"Dark and stormy nights my ass," he muttered. Sammy had called just before the storm's force hit him for real, feeding him the cheesy line and telling him to be careful as he crisscrossed the back country, avoiding the interstates clogged with residents and vacationers fleeing hurricane Idabell. His brother Sam had escaped on one of the last flights out of Louis Armstrong International, along with their childhood friend Jo, and had probably landed in Kansas City by now. Both had insisted at first that Dean go with them; as if Dean would ever leave his baby behind. He had spent far too many hours and far too much money restoring the once-neglected object of their dad's affections to risk losing her now.

It was one of the only things he and his dad had ever agreed upon.

Sam and Jo would have gone with him, had Jo not fallen inexplicably and disgustingly ill the day prior to the hurricane's ugly turn toward the Louisiana shoreline. They had purchased two tickets mere hours before the weather channel first breathed the word _evacuation. _Dean had convinced them to keep their reservation; after all, he had been fine with returning to Lawrence alone before the impending storm, why should a little rain and wind change that now?

The three friends had driven down to New Orleans on a lark, Dean missing the days when he and Sammy would jump in the car and ramble across the Kansas prairie on a search for adventure, and Jo needing an escape from her life of slowly turning into her mother. And it had been more fun than Dean had had in months. Good food, good beer, good company.

The tree lying across the road was invisible until, suddenly, it was not.

Dean slammed on the brakes, tires catching on the wet, slick road and locking, skidding, the backend fishtailing as the heavy piece of machinery around tried to flip around. He spun to a stop with maybe a foot to spare, chest tight with a lungful of air. He released it in a rush, sweat popping on his forehead, fingers clenched on the steering wheel.

"Fuck," he exhaled shakily. Tentatively, he nudged the car into gear again and sighed in relief when the tires caught pavement. "Stupid, stupid, stupid" he muttered, carefully negotiating the narrow road, forward and reverse, until he was moving against the rain, in the direction from which he'd just come. There had been an opening back there, in the dark. He hoped it was marked on that goddamn map, because it looked like that little road was his last hope.

…

"The storm is kicking up. Idabell, they're calling it." Gabriel passed Castiel a glass of iced tea, the square cubes clinking against the clear mug.

Castiel grunted. "Nostalgic name," he muttered, grimacing at the bland bitterness of the tea. "Are we out of sugar, then?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes and produced two small pink packets. "Use these, it's all we've got until I can go into town for a supply run." Castiel's carefully schooled expression, and failure to move to take the sweetener, had Gabriel squirming on the settee. "Don't look at me like that."

"I refuse to consume that ridiculous, unnatural concoction." Castiel sniffed primly, which dispelled the impending gloom that had begun to settle over Gabriel.

Castiel was disgruntled and melancholy at the best of times; Gabriel had learned long ago to read his moods and find shelter from the tempest when it was bad. And as the years progressed, it had often been bad.

It had been the motive for building a small cabin behind the house, Gabriel's refuge, and a source of self-preservation, although the structure had taken he and Cas nearly a year to construct, and almost another to fully wire and plumb. Construction, Gabriel was familiar with, having raised many a barn and roof in his days as a traveling priest. The other trade skills he had had to learn; but, after all, in two hundred years he had had little else on his hands but time. And a conveniently located library in the tiny town of Revelation just down the bayou.

Convincing the parish utility providers to venture behind the cypress-lined waterways to the old (and oft-rumored haunted) Godwyne plantation to install services hadn't been without its share of troublesome coercion. The payoff, however, was grand. Gabriel had a small television, and after a well was dropped on the backside of the property, hot and cold running water. His tiny kitchen held a refrigerator and stove and microwave. But his most favorite invention of the past two hundred years was in the living space: a window air conditioning unit.

Sometimes, on the steamiest summer nights, he would lie naked on the center of his bed, blissful in the cool blast of air as it evaporated the film of sweat that seemed ever present on his skin in this godforsaken swamp.

Castiel still refused air conditioning, (Gabriel attributed this stubbornness to his annoying habit of martyrdom) but the miracle of heated water had convinced him to allow Gabriel to wire the central living space of Godwyne as well. The right and left wings of the mansion remained much as they had been in the 19th century.

Television was not an allowable luxury either.

_Nothing _was going to be a luxury if Cas didn't allow him to sell another piece of art or antiquity soon.

"Cas—"

A loud burst of thunder shook the window glass and the lights flickered before they were thrust into darkness.

Castiel unerringly placed his glass on the small table beside his chair with a soft _clink_.

Gabriel, blind in the newly blackened room, frowned when he felt more than saw Castiel move past him. "Where are you going?" He stared into the nothing, trying to discern shapes, shadows_._

"To bed."

A flash of lightning pushed an elongated shadow of Cas' form against the opposite wall as he climbed the staircase. Gabriel blinked rapidly, the afterimage of wings burnt onto his eyelids. Somewhere overhead a door closed with a muted thud.

"And you have a good evening, too," he murmured, snorting. He stood and held out his hands, carefully making his way across the room and managing to reach the doorway without banging a shin or stubbing a toe. Another harsh bolt of too-close atmospherical charge afforded him a cursory view of the rest of his path through the kitchen, where he could find his way by feel, if not by sight, to the back door and stoop.

From there, he had only to make it across the yard to his little cabin hideaway to ride out the storm.

…

The road was a dead end.

It was paved, until the decaying blacktop gave way to densely packed dirt and ending abruptly in a muddy two-tire trail at a line of trees. The smell of what Dean had quickly learned was swamp water filled the car when he cracked his window. He sat for a long moment, staring at the thick, grey moss hanging in eerie drapes from the cypress that edged what he suspected was a body of moving water. He could hear the rush under the pounding rain.

He put the car in reverse, not trusting the sodden ground not to swallow the Impala's wheels if he tried to turn her around. "Fuck this fucking state and its fucking stinky water hellhole of a road system," he cursed under his breath as he navigated the trail backwards, head craned around.

He had to stop when he got a cramp in his neck and he pounded the steering wheel in frustration. He was seriously contemplating sleeping through Idabell, right there on the front seat, when a light between the trees startled him. He blinked, thinking it was a hallucination, or the Impala's headlamps reflecting off a distant spot of dampness or puddle.

The light began to move.

It was small and round and glowing and it flickered through the cypress and the moss, dancing and blinking out of existence, only to reappear a second later. It began to climb in altitude, slowly, further away, then near, higher and higher until it was gone for so long Dean was sure he had imagined it.

When it winked back into view, it was constant, stationary, and that's when he realized it was a flashlight, no, a candle; the light was too warm and yellow to be artificial.

"Finally," he exhaled and backed up, excruciatingly slow, eyes scanning the trees for an opening. When he spotted it, he grinned. "Hallelujah."

His smile faded as he descended an even more overgrown pair of tire tracks, halting at the boundary of a very intimidating crossing. He wouldn't dare call that thing a bridge; it was a pile of rocks that looked like it had been gathered by a beaver for a dam, and Dean had serious doubts as to whether it would withstand the weight of the car. Especially with him _in_ it. He was half-convinced to reverse and continue back out to the highway when the light began to move again. He could see a window clearly now, tall and narrow, old-fashioned, and the outline of the house it belonged to in the next faraway strike of lightning made his mouth go dry.

"Holy shit."

The choice was made for him when the car began to slide in the damp and mud, and it was either hit the gas and cross the bayou or sink into the water that had begun to trickle across the top of the crossing in a thin sheen.

Dean hit the gas.

There was no drive, per se, once he made it safely across the water, but he could see the hood of a vintage Ford pickup peeking around the end of one wing. It would have born further investigating, were the weather not potentially about to become disastrous and Dean wasn't fighting a surprisingly strong desire to flee.

There was something foreboding about this house.

It was enormous, and dark, although he could appreciate that at one point it had been a beauty. Greek in style, the portico was massive, topped with a triangular pediment and flanked on all sides by fluted columns. The centerpiece was easily three stories, and probably included a spooky attic (if Dean's experiences with old houses held), and there were identical two-story wings on either side. A house this size, tucked into the backwoods of nowhere Louisiana, had been here a while.

A good, long while.

Dean shivered as he stood in front of the massive door. The rain and wind had beat against his back as he made a run for the steps, and now the moisture that had gathered under his collar ran down his spine. He searched in vain for a doorbell before lifting the ornate brass knocker and letting it fall.

…

Twin arcs of light flooded Gabriel's little house and he jumped out of bed.

"Holy God," he breathed in shock. He stared as the lights of what was obviously a car climbed the sloping yard before halting in front of the main house. He yanked on his pants and boots and grabbed a flashlight before racing to the backdoor of the main house.

With the exception of the (exorbitantly bribed) drilling company and electric coop, not a single soul had voluntarily ventured onto Godwyne plantation in two hundred years.

Gabriel's heart hammered against his chest with the implication.

…

Dean dropped the knocker again. "Come on," he muttered, flipping the collar of his jacket up to buffer his neck against the wind. He banged a fist against the door. "Hello?"

He backed up, peering in the area where he had seen the candle. A soft yellow-red glow cast an oddly-shaped shadow in the narrow rectangular opening and he waved; someone up there was watching him. "Yeah, I'm down here, douchebag. Now come open the door."

The window went dark.

…

Gabriel careened up the stairs, skidding to a stop on the first landing when the car's driver began to bang on the door. He peered out the window but couldn't see the man. He took the rest of the steps as quietly as he could, and burst into Castiel's bedroom.

"Cas—"

"I've seen him. Get rid of him."

Castiel's back was to the door as he stared out into the darkness. Rain peppered the window, and from the glow of his downturned flashlight, Gabriel could make out his scowl, water droplets sparkling like jewels against the firm jaw in his reflection. Great, dark wings dragged the floor behind him, his presence in the shadowed room larger than his body alone would suggest. When Gabriel didn't move to leave, Castiel tensed and the musculature under the skin of his back rippled in response, reminding Gabriel of just how much the outwardly cool exterior hid; Castiel had learned well to control his rage over the long span of suspended time, but even a gentle beast when cornered will attack.

"The storm. Don't you think we should," Gabriel stopped. Any storm was a touchy subject, and one he knew better than to approach.

"Get rid of him," Cas warned, voice rough, scraping low and dangerous along Gabriel's spine.

Even after all these shared years, the former priest was still mindful of the careful negotiations required of his station in this mixed up tale that had somehow become the fruit of what once had been his life.

And yet.

"He could be the one." Gabriel let the words settle over both of them, quiet.

Calm.

The old house was filled with the silence of a structure undertaking a deluge; rain slaking across the thick panes of glass, lightning shattering the bleak darkness in carefully measured increments behind each thunderous crack of heaven splitting open. The foundation creaked and the roof joints whined.

All things had a breaking point, Gabriel knew. Even those exceptionally well crafted and thoughtfully, even maliciously, planned.

"Don't be ridiculous," Castiel finally said.

"Cas—"

"No!" Castiel's roar was mutinous, abrupt and cold, and it shook the frame of the window where he stood, as surely as any thunder had before. The sleek expanse of his wings threw a deep shadow across the wall in the flashlight's weak illumination.

His claws clicked on the floor as he shifted position, nostrils flaring, feathered appendages lowering in remorse, perhaps even shame, but Gabriel kept his eyes trained on Castiel's profile.

"Is it to be you and I then?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper as he backed toward the door. "Forever, old friend?"

Castiel hung his head tiredly and turned back to the dark night outside the window, staring down at the twin triangular domes of light spraying across the overgrowth along the front path. He didn't answer.

He couldn't, there were no more words. Because after all these many decades, with time effectively running out, Castiel had long since lost all hope.

He didn't move for several moments after the door clicked closed behind him.

…

Gabriel took a deep breath and pulled the heavy door open.

The porch's occupant whirled around in surprise, a grin lighting his handsome face.

"Thank God, I thought you were going to leave me out here to drown."

Gabriel winced inwardly. "I cannot help you, you should go." He started to close the door and the man's hand shot out, quick, to stop him.

"Wait. I just need some help getting back to the highway, and," the man grinned tentatively again, coughing. "Maybe I could use your facilities?"

Gabriel stared at him in silence for so long the man shifted his weight back and forth.

"Look, man, I'm lost. And in case you hadn't noticed," he waved a finger in the air over his head. "We're in the middle of a goddamned hurricane."

"I can't help you." Gabriel put all of his weight behind his next shove and the door closed resolutely in the man's stunned face. Gabriel's forehead made a soft thud when it hit the cool wood. "Father, forgive me," he whispered, wondering if they had sealed this man's fate as surely as the fates of two hundred others so many years ago.

…

Dean stared at the door in shock. "Sonofa—"

He kicked the door in frustration. "Thanks a lot, asshole!" he yelled and kicked the door once more for good measure. He turned back to the rain and the dark and, resolute, descended the steps at a jog, sliding into the warm mugginess of the car. "Sonofabitch," he repeated. He glanced at the map, but ignored it, choosing instead to favor raw instinct. And common sense.

He had turned right. So he would retrace his steps and turn left.

He eased down the makeshift drive, sucking in a breath at the sight that awaited him at the crossing. Water now flowed freely over it, the mud and rock surface murky even under the glow of his headlights. He gritted his teeth and nudged the gas.

He was halfway across, heaving a sigh of relief, when a wall of water, fed by the swollen river and gaining strength by the second, flung an errant tree limb under the Impala and pushed her over the side.

"Fuck!" Dean swore, hitting the gas and jerking the steering wheel, desperately attempting to right the car before she fell into the bayou. The car stalled, teetering on the edge, the back end hung up, wheels spinning fruitlessly. When the water began to stream into the floorboard, Dean knew he had to bail.

"Fuck fuck fuck," he hissed, rolling down the driver's window and gauging his chances. The water was violent as it rushed under him, and the tipsy shuddering of the car made his stomach dip in fear; if his weight proved too much as he jumped into the bayou, the car could flip over on top of him. "Passenger side it is," he muttered and unlatched his seatbelt.

He climbed carefully over the middle seat and removed the keys from the ignition; God willing, when the water receded he could walk out here and start 'er up, drive on home.

"Yeah right," he complained under his breath, climbing out of the passenger door. The river-heavy bayou was cool and instantly filled his boots. The ground of the crossing felt unsteady, disintegrating under the combined weight of the car and the water, and Dean knew instinctively he needed to hurry. He shut the door with as little force as possible and held onto the shining black body as he picked his way across the eddying flow. He patted the trunk sadly. "I'll be back for you, Baby, don't you worry."

He never saw the second tree limb as it swept over the side of the crossing and knocked him into the deep.

…

Choking. Dark, cold and wet.

Dean gasped when his head broke the surface, wheezing, coughing, swallowing another mouthful of filth before retching and being dragged beneath, the undertow too swift, the bottom too far away. He kicked furiously, jeans weighting his legs, boots leaden, sinking, dropping, the darkness of the night and the storm disorienting him. He swam, arms straining, lungs burning with the need to express the liquid he had inhaled, and he kicked harder, but he had no idea if he was pushing himself deeper to the bottom or closer to the top.

Far too soon he felt his arms weaken, and his legs lighten. A strange sense of euphoria swept through him and he wondered if he had kicked free, was saved, if he was even now gasping fresh, clean mouthfuls of air, lying on the moss-covered ground under an ancient cypress. _Sammy,_ he thought. _I'm coming home._

He felt, rather than saw the darkness deepen, encompassing him, clutching him within its confines and wrapping him in a cocoon of warmth, lifting him free of the wetness and the cold emptiness of dying alone, and he clung to it.

With his last whisper of consciousness he projected, _thank you,_ and hoped there was someone on the other side to receive him.

…


	3. Chapter 2

Gabriel scrambled to get out the way when his front door slammed into the wall, screaming wind and torrential rain heralding Castiel's appearance in the opening. The winged creature crossed the room in three strides before unceremoniously dropping the unconscious man he held over his shoulder onto Gabriel's bed.

"What have you done?" Gabriel rushed to the bedside, peeling back one of the man's eyelids, laying his ear to the man's chest. He shivered when he heard the swift flutter of feathers and felt a spray of water on his back.

"He was in the bayou."

Gabriel held his breath, listening hard.

"Is he—"

"Shh," Gabriel shushed him, repositioning his ear. His hand scraped under the man's jaw and along his throat, searching for the pulse of life he knew should flicker there. He held his breath, tuning out the sound of the storm and the drip drip drip of the moisture that slipped from Cas' wings and pinged against the hardwood. The skin under his fingers was cool but there was a hint of warmth beneath and maybe—

He breathed a sigh of relief when he felt it, a thready _bump-bump_ under the pad of his middle finger, and _there,_ beneath the soaked plaid cotton shirt, the beat of his heart. "He's alive," he exhaled shakily. "He's alive."

As if on cue the man moaned, before folding in on himself with a wracking cough, retching filthy bile and water all over the bed.

Gabriel grimaced, holding the man firmly on his side until he was still. "Fetch me some towels, Castiel, and clean linens."

Castiel grumbled under his breath, obviously anxious to make his escape, but he dutifully left to retrieve the items from the bathroom. Gabriel winced when he heard the tinkling sound of shattering glass as an errant wing knocked something loose.

This was a house meant for man, not beast.

He peered down at the stranger who remained unconscious after releasing the contents of his stomach and lungs. He was pale, too pale, in the light from the oil lamp, and a quick palm against his forehead confirmed that he was clammy and trembling as well. Gabriel quickly unbuttoned the flannel shirt; the man was going into shock.

"Cas!"

"Here." Castiel tossed the towels across the room, most of them falling within Gabriel's reach, as he remained poised for flight, statue-still by the bathroom door.

Gabriel spread open the man's shirt and grabbed the nearest towel, vigorously rubbing the moisture from his chest, urging a sluggish bloodstream to the surface. He glanced at the room's only other occupant. "Are you going to stand over there brooding or are you going to help?"

"He could awaken at any moment. I should go."

"Take off his boots, and his jeans," Gabe said, ignoring him. "He's chilled. We need to remove his wet things and warm him."

Castiel opened his mouth to protest but slammed it shut at Gabriel's warning glare. "Fine." He shook his wings again, the remaining water sluicing off and spattering the walls and furnishings.

"And could you please stop doing that?" Gabe groused under his breath, startling when Castiel appeared at his side in an instant. "Sorry," he muttered.

"You care too much for material possessions, Father." Castiel grabbed one of the man's boots and deftly untied the strings, pulling it free and tossing it to the floor by the door. He repeated the motion with the second boot then hesitated, unsure.

"I'm no longer a priest, as you are aware," Gabriel said calmly, pulling the man's arm free and sliding the shirt out from under him. He glanced pointedly at the man's jeans. "Pants."

"I—" Castiel stopped, flustered. He growled low in his throat to mask his frustration and shifted closer to the bed. His fingers worked the buttons on the fly open before tugging the pants down the man's hips. They clung to his skin, sodden and heavy, and Castiel's fingers tingled where they brushed the clamminess underneath. He grunted again as he worked the pants lower, blinking when they suddenly slipped free to the man's thighs, dragging his undergarment with them.

Gabriel chuckled at Cas' expression and tossed a dry towel over the man's groin. "Don't look so stunned, Cas. I'm pretty sure you were already aware he was male."

"Shut up," Cas warned, recovering his composure to yank the man's pants down his calves and tossing them to the floor.

Gabriel stood. "Pick him up."

"What? Why?" Cas backed up two steps. He tried desperately to look anywhere but at the naked man lying on Gabriel's bed and failed miserably. The cut of his jaw was beautiful in the lamplight, and even at this distance, Castiel could see freckles dusting over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. His upper body was broad and showed evidence the man was a laborer, waist pleasingly narrow in contrast, and his skin was an appealing deep gold, work worn and oft exposed to the sun. The pale cream of his bare hips were a sharp contrast in the low light of the room, and Castiel's fingertips tingled again in latent memory of their soft smoothness.

He had touched no one, nor been touched, in two centuries.

"No."

"Cas." Gabriel sighed and shoved the clean linens in Cas' direction. "Fine. I'll lift him and you—"

Cas pushed him aside before he could finish and easily lifted the man in his arms. He turned away so that Gabriel had room to strip the bed, one wing lifting to allow his friend to pass under it.

The man's head hung limply over the crook of his elbow, exposing a long column of throat. Cas could see the pulse fluttering rapidly along one side, but he didn't need the visual confirmation that the man was alive; he could hear his heartbeat, could feel the blood pumping through his veins.

It was heady. And frighteningly unusual.

Castiel's blood responded in kind, pricking to life with a hum. His forearms burned where they touched the man's naked skin, and he felt a sudden, intense urge to fly. "Finish it," he ground out between his teeth.

"Fine, fine," Gabriel soothed. "It's finished." He held up the sheet and motioned for Cas to deposit the man under it.

For all that he wanted to drop the man and flee into the storm, wash away the strange feeling snaking through his limbs, Cas was gentle as he arranged him on the bed. He pulled the towel free from the man's hips as Gabriel lowered the sheet.

"I'll probably—" Gabriel blinked. Cas was already gone, shoving past him and out, into the rain and wind and dark.

…

Dean was first aware of a sharp ache in his neck and back, as if all his joints and sockets had been wrenched by opposing forces, his body tossed about in abandon. His arms were heavy, eyelids weighted. He fought the cottony, warm sleep that wanted to contain him in its depths, holding him tight, promising peaceful slumber, safety from the cold and the wet and the—

His eyes popped open as the memory washed over him, water, rain, the bayou filling his lungs. He gasped, chest expanding painfully, inducing a coughing fit that forced him onto his side in an attempt to relieve the aching pressure. It felt like his lungs had been wrung inside out and then shoved back down his throat. His breath rattled, wet and unsteady, and he glanced blearily at his sparse surroundings, memories of the storm and becoming lost in the bayou flooding back.

From this vantage point, he appeared to be alone. He tentatively raised one arm above the sheet and fought to leverage himself into a sitting position. The room swam and he froze until the walls stopped spinning. _So no sudden movements, then,_ he thought wryly. He blinked sleepily and raked his palm across dry, chapped lips. His mouth and tongue were tacky, gross. He needed a drink, and he grimaced, disbelieving his body's craving for _water_ of all things.

He cleared his dry throat and tried to call out, but his rasping _Hello,_ was a rustle of unintelligible syllables.

He started when the door opened and a man stepped into the small room, humming, a basket over his arm.

"Oh," the man said, immobilized by the sight of Dean staring back at him. "You're awake."

"Where," Dean tried to speak and had to swallow, his voice cracking on the single word, throat on fire from the effort. "What happened?" he tried again.

The man carefully set the basket on the floor and closed the door. Dean could see tan and cream eggs inside the small, woven container. "There was a storm," the man began hesitantly. He moved to the end of the bed and sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress. "You were swept into the bayou."

"I remember," Dean nodded, grimacing and holding his throat. "Water."

"Oh," the man shot up. "Of course. You must be parched."

He disappeared through a small doorway and Dean could hear the rattle of glassware and a faucet. He returned with a mug and held it to Dean's lips. His hands were shaking and Dean cupped one hand around the glass to steady it before drinking greedily, coughing when the burn from swallowing became too strong.

"Easy," the man murmured. "You gave us, me, quite a fright."

"Where am I?" Dean asked, falling back against the hard mattress, the simple act of taking a drink having exhausted him. He clutched at the sheet. "I," he paused, memory banks searching for something, anything after the moment he climbed from the Impala and onto the crossing. There was nothing. Dark, cold water. Then warmth and a breeze, weightless, and—

"Louisiana," the man offered hesitantly and Dean snorted back a laugh.

"I remember that part," he managed around a groan as he pushed himself back off the bed. He peered under the sheet. "I remember having clothes too."

The man gestured through the doorway where he had procured the cup. "They're hanging to dry, in the sun. You were," he bit his lip. "You were soaked, and very, very lucky."

"How'd you find me? I seem to remember you not being particularly happy to see me on your porch." Dean studied the man's reaction to his acknowledgement that he recognized him. He sat up straight. "My car."

"I pulled it out this morning. I'm not sure it will run, but it's free of the swamp." He held out a hand. "Gabriel."

Dean clasped the warm, dry fingers in his own, noting the firmness of the handshake, the sincerity strange and intriguing when paired with the odd note of trepidation he could see in the man's eyes. "Dean Winchester."

Gabriel stood up. "I'll check on your clothes, Mr. Winchester. And then we'll see about some food. Do you feel as though you could eat?"

"Dean." Dean refused the hand when he tried to stand, awkwardly wrapping the sheet around his waist. He swayed unsteadily for a moment until his equilibrium stabilized and he was able to take a step on his own. "Bathroom?" he asked, nodding toward the far door.

"Yes, of course. I'll be right back."

Dean watched the odd little man hurry from the room. He seemed torn between an eagerness to help and a fearful anxiety that Dean couldn't quite get a read on. He groaned as he limped across the smooth hardwood floor toward the bathroom, giving the cheery rag rugs and simple furnishings a cursory glance.

He relieved himself, thankful when he found modern plumbing. The simple cabin had the distinct air of something from a bygone era, no modern amenities or frivolities immediately apparent. He washed his face and arms in the narrow pedestal sink, somewhat surprised to find the water plentiful and hot. The soap was a crudely cut bar, clearly homemade, and he brought it to his nose and gave it a sniff. It was homey and reminded him of something way back in the depths of his memory wells. Something from when he was very small, but it flitted away before he could grasp it. He laid the bar back on the simple porcelain saucer and left the bathroom.

The walls of the combination living and sleeping area were hewn log, but the double hung windows appeared new, the glass clean and sparkling in the bright morning sun. He leaned over to peer out into the front yard, surprised to find himself staring at what appeared to be a wing of the mansion from the night before.

"Are you all right?"

Dean started, grabbing the sheet before it fell and inadvertently gave his host an eyeful. "Ah, yeah. Better, thanks." He shifted uncomfortable. "Clothes?"

"Your, um," Gabriel held out Dean's boxers and Dean took them, along with his shirt. "Your pants are still very damp. I can get them, if you think," he trailed off, unsure.

Dean tilted his head in the direction of the bathroom. "If you don't mind me eating in my skivvies, I don't," he grinned.

"No, no, of course not."

Dean stepped behind the narrow door, more as a courtesy than from any latent modesty on his part. He had never considered himself particularly shy, about his body or anyone else's.

Gabriel wiped his hands hastily on his pants as he waited for Dean to return. "Eggs all right?"

"Eggs would be perfect," Dean called from the bathroom. "Do you have any coffee?"

"Yes, of course." Gabriel winced when a wide shadow passed over the yard. _Castiel._ "I'll go start it right now," he called, voice a touch too loud. He hurried through the kitchen, forgetting to catch the back screen door before it slammed. He waved his arms frantically to the sky in warning.

Dean studied his reflection in the mirror as he buttoned the shirt. He had a shallow cut above his left eyebrow, crisscrossing an older, pale scar running parallel to his hairline in a jagged, twisting rope. His left ear was ringing, an impossible phantom tone that had chased him for years, since he had returned from the desert battered and broken, but miraculously alive. He shook his head and snapped his fingers hard at his left temple, an old habit, and a fruitless one.

Nothing.

It was likely the water sloshing around in there, probably had already given him an infection. He sighed. That was all he needed. He had a sneaking suspicion that coffee and eggs were a lot easier to procure than antibiotics in this strange place he'd wandered into.

He ventured back through the living area, feeling somewhat silly in boxers and a half-buttoned flannel shirt, feet bare on the smooth wood floor. He wondered where the man, Gabriel, had slept the night before; the furnishings were meager, spare.

He remembered his car and whirled around, peering out the front window again, but there was no sign of her. "Gabriel?" he called, but no answer came from the kitchen, so he left through the front door. He just needed to see her, know she was all right.

He was barely out from under the porch eave when the sun's light was doused, and he glanced up, praying it wasn't more rain.

The bird's wings were massive as it soared across the sky, obliterating the sun, and Dean barely resisted the urge to duck back under the porch, mouth gone slack at the size of the animal. He blinked rapidly when the sun flared bright as he tracked its flight, the wingspan forced into harsh silhouette. He rubbed his eyes but the afterimage stayed long after the shadow had passed behind the big house.

"Dean?" Gabriel asked from the doorway. "Are you all right?"

Dean heard the note of apprehension in his voice and filed it away. "Yeah, sorry." He schooled his expression before he turned and offered a bland grin. "That was a big bird."

"Carrion," Gabriel said quickly. "There were probably many animal casualties in the flood last night." He shuddered. "Hideous, disgusting birds."

Dean chuckled and ducked through the door Gabriel held open. "Not a fan of things with wings, then?" He winked at the flustered man. "Me either. Flying's overrated."

"Your coffee's ready," Gabriel blurted. At Dean's raised eyebrow he took a deep breath and released it slowly before he offered a genuine smile. "Your coffee's ready," he said again, more calmly.

Dean laughed and patted him on the arm. "Calm down, padre. I don't bite." He winked and crossed the room.

"What did you call me?" Gabriel asked, fidgeting nervously again in the kitchen doorway as he watched Dean fill two mugs.

"Padre? It's just an expression." Dean took a careful sip from one of the mugs and grunted in approval. He turned and leaned against the narrow counter, crossing one bare ankle over another. He held out the second mug.

Gabriel stepped close enough to take it and stared into the dark liquid as it lapped at the cup's white edge. "I was a priest, once," he said quietly before bringing the mug to his lips.

"No shit?" Dean cocked his head. That would explain the austerity. "What happened?" He took another sip.

"Time," Gabriel offered with a sad smile.

The pair was quiet as they drank their coffee.

"So, eggs?" Gabriel finally asked, setting the mug aside.

"How about an egg sandwich? You got any bread?" Dean grinned. "I'm guessing it's close to lunchtime by now."

"I do. And it is." Gabriel felt the tension drain from his shoulders. Dean was a happy presence, a bright and unexpected spark of life in this dreary, monotonous existence. He waved Dean aside. "If you want to go check your pants? Moisture evaporates quickly in the sun."

"Yeah, but it's so damn humid," Dean complained as he straightened. He disappeared out the back and returned a few moments later, stomach rumbling at the aroma of frying eggs and bacon. "Bacon? Padre, you're the man."

"Pants?"

"No dice," Dean said cheerfully. "I guess I'll be roaming around in my shorts for a while longer." He sat at the table and smiled his thanks when Gabriel set a plate in front of him. He frowned when the man didn't sit down across from him. "Aren't you going to eat?"

Gabriel hesitated before bringing a second plate to the table. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

Dean laughed. "Like you eating with your back to me wasn't going to do that anyway? Sit. Eat." He thumped the table with his fist. "You saved my life. I think we can break bread together."

Gabriel sat with a grin. "I accept your generous offer, Mr. Winchester."

"Man, you gotta lighten up. And it's Dean."

"Dean."

They ate in companionable silence, Gabriel assembling two more sandwiches and two glasses of iced tea before they were finished.

"Ok, pants or not, I'm gonna go check on my car. You didn't happen to find my keys when you were fishing me out of the swamp, did you?"

Gabriel stood and walked to the back door, pulling Dean's car keys, cell phone and wallet from a small bowl on the counter.

"Holy shit," Dean exclaimed with a smile. "Finding one of those was probably a miracle, but all three?" He accepted the items and stood, clapping his hand to Gabriel's shoulder. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Gabriel nodded solemnly. "Your car is just around the front of the big house."

Dean felt a little silly pulling on his boots in light of the fact that he still wasn't wearing any pants, but he didn't want to risk stepping on something disgusting in the overgrown wet yard either. He had a feeling snakes might be an issue in swampland. He could hear Gabriel cleaning up as he stepped off the porch.

He rounded the corner of the _big house_, as Gabriel had called it, and stopped to admire the pickup parked at the corner. The body was starting to show a little rust in places, but the inside looked clean and neatly kept, and Dean whistled in appreciation as he ran a hand over her rounded hood. He had grown up tinkering with cars at his Uncle Bobby's shop, and after he had left the service (not entirely of his own volition), tinkering had turned into paid employment.

At the time, he had needed the familiar smells and sounds and feel of the garage to calm his shattered nerves. He didn't need both ears fully functioning to fix a motor, and the cars didn't give a shit about the ugly scars that ran across his temple or down his back.

He genuinely _liked_ working for Bobby, maybe even loved it. Loved reworking a motor or renovating a classic. But the pay sucked and the hours were long and sometimes he wondered if he wouldn't have done better by himself if he had gone into diesel mechanics or welding or aeronautics.

Something with a future.

The Impala was parked just where Gabriel had said, her hood covered in a thin film of dried muck. Dean heaved a sigh of relief when it appeared she didn't have any major cosmetic defects on his first cursory appraisal. She must not have fallen into the bayou after all. He opened the driver's door, grimacing at the stench of the overheated interior, and the puddle of brackish water still present in the floorboard.

"Well you're going to be a real joy to ride home with, old girl. You stink." He slid behind the wheel and stuck the key in the ignition. "Here goes nothin'," he muttered.

The engine whined but didn't turn over and Dean pumped the gas. "Come on, baby, you can do it." He gave up when the whir of the straining motor indicated something more serious than a little too much rain.

"Fuck." He climbed back out, grabbing the cell phone and praying for a charge. He held the power button for several seconds, but the small black rectangle remained dark. "Fucking fuck," he said again, tossing the phone into the back seat.

He popped the hood and cracked his knuckles. Might as well start from the top.

…

"He's all right?"

"Goddammit, Cas," Gabriel jumped, dropping a plate into the sink with a clatter. "What are you doing?" he asked in a rush, glancing quickly to the front of the house. "He's right outside."

"He's at his car," Cas said smoothly. He backed off the stoop and into the shadows of the house. "He will be all right?" he asked again.

"Yes, as far as I can tell, no lasting damage. He's," he stopped and tilted his head thoughtfully, a slow grin blooming. "Seems like a nice fellow who took a wrong turn." He turned to make a crack about destiny and fate, but Castiel was gone. "I really hate when you do that," he muttered, turning back to the dishes.

…

Dean whistled a slightly off key tune as he methodically worked through a mental checklist under the hood, wishing he could afford enough battery to hunt for a local station on the radio. And jeans. It was hot and muggy, but he was starting to feel a little weird about standing around in his boxers. The back of his neck pricked with awareness, instincts honed by years spent in a warzone, but he had turned to look behind him more times than he could count and nothing was ever there.

Just the ever-present sensation of eyes on his skin.

The clouds had gathered again, throwing the previously sunny day into an overcast gloom, and he sang aloud to dispel the distraction of the heavy atmosphere as he worked. _"And I can remember the fourth of July, runnin' through the backwood, bare. And I can still hear my old hound dog barkin', chasin' down a hoodoo there." _

He whistled the guitar riff, a song about the bayou, bent low under the hood, peering closely at a hose coupling. Something loose, maybe. He chewed his bottom lip, contemplating the muddy ground before shrugging and squatting, peering under the front end, behind the axel, looking for damage, wondering how the hell he was going to get out of this oppressive shithole.

His left side buffered by the absence of sound, Dean never heard the slick swish of the alligator as it raced across the damp grass and mud. It honed in on the warm body kneeling on the spongy earth, reptilian eyes flickering, hungry.

Dean sensed something falling over him before he saw it, a massive shadow covering the ground, and he fell to his butt in a startled attempt at evasion, frantically clawing at the grass and mud like a crab skittering across sand as _it_ dropped five feet from the Impala's hood. He scrambled to his feet with a guttural yell, mouth working, hands grasping futilely at the slick sides of the car for traction, desperate to escape the great, hulking, _thing_ he could not process, yanking open the driver's door just as the creature released a roar. The hair stood up on Dean's arms and he froze, hands on the wheel of his incapacitated car, as he spotted motion in the tall weeds of the unkempt yard, a mottled brown movement in the grasses drawing his eyes from the enormous black wings.

The alligator snapped, ferociously swinging it's powerful tail in a breathtaking standoff. Dean's lungs burned from lack of oxygen in the interminable moment it took for the gator to recoil, slinking back to the bayou and disappearing in the rushes.

His hands began to shake when the creature's wings lowered. The sun winked out from behind a cloud to cast a ray of diffused light across the yard, illuminating him from behind as he slowly turned to face the car.

_He._

Because, even though Dean's brain was having trouble resolving the impossibility of what he was seeing, the thing standing before him was a man.

…


	4. Chapter 3

"Castiel!" Gabriel shouted. "Wait!"

Castiel's powerful legs were crouched, ready to spring, wings poised for flight.

Dean didn't dare look away, pinned to the front seat by the creature's piercing eyes. He released his death grip on the steering wheel and slowly eased out of the car. He ducked, arms thrown up in reflex when it sprang into the air, wings pitching over him in a quick swath of black.

Gabriel was out of breath when he reached him. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"What the hell was that thing?" Dean rasped, finding his voice. He spun around, a slow 360-degree circle, searching the sky, finding nothing but a charcoal gathering of clouds on the horizon and the muted silver of an overcast sky.

"Dean." Gabriel seemed poised for flight himself and Dean studied him closely, eyes sharp on his pallid face.

"You called it a name. What _was_ that thing?"

"Dean," Gabriel said again, placating, and Dean shook off the hand he laid on his forearm.

"No, goddammit, you tell me the truth." He raked fingers through his hair, shaky, anxious, that odd feeling of being watched suddenly back with a vengeance, along with a rush of déjà vu. He whipped his head around to the house and shouted, voice furious and dark. "You get your ass out here, you freakish sonofoabitch! Face me like a man!"

"Castiel," Gabriel said softly. "His name is Castiel."

Dean stopped pacing, chest heaving, scanning the weeds again for movement, although he had a sneaking suspicion no more alligators would brave the yard today. "You didn't pull me from the swamp, did you."

Gabriel watched Dean's shoulder's tense in the gloomy light as a fine mist began to fall. He started when Dean spun around.

"Did you?"

Gabriel shook his head. "No."

Dean shoved his index finger in his face. "I'm going to go put my goddamn jeans on and then _you,_" he jabbed Gabriel in the chest. "Are going to explain a few things." He sidestepped the smaller man's quiet form, spinning back around at the corner to yell into sky. "I'm going to put my pants on now, show's over!"

Gabriel sighed and watched the second floor window where he suspected Castiel probably hid, where he had always hidden, ignoring life as it passed them both in a sea of decades and changing history. They had seen the world remake itself time and again in the past two centuries, and yet in some ways, Castiel was still the man who had sacrificed it all, down to his very soul, forced to live in guilt and penance for sins no one else remembered.

Gabriel slowly made his way back to his little cabin. Dean deserved an answer.

…

Dean was at the kitchen counter, fully dressed, shirt buttoned, a fresh mug of coffee in his hand. His handsome jaw was stern, green eyes snapping in the soft light.

Gabriel held up a hand in entreaty. "I promise, I'll explain everything. Just," he pursed his lips. "Just listen before you start yelling again, okay?"

Dean snorted, surprising them both before he relaxed the arm he had crossed in front of his chest and reached for the second cup of coffee he'd poured. "Fine. Go."

"Maybe I should start at the beginning," Gabriel said, taking the mug Dean held out to him, an unfamiliar graciousness permeating the small room for the second time that day.

"That's usually a good place to start," Dean said drily.

Gabriel couldn't detect any malice, nor fear, in Dean's steady gaze, which was really altogether shocking considering the previous twenty minutes.

"It's my story. I should be the one to tell it."

They both jerked at the deep voice from the stoop.

Dean stepped back, in spite of his previous bravado. The figure at the door tentatively opened the screen, and Dean was surprised to see fingers pushing aside the pine frame, long and slender, the bones of his wrists delicate below the corded muscle of a very normal-appearing forearm. When he fully emerged from the shadows and into the kitchen, Dean sucked in a quick breath.

Up close, the '_creature'_ was not what he expected.

He was tall, at least as tall as Dean, with a shock of thick dark hair and intense blue eyes. His features were finely sculpted, the barest hint of a cleft in his chin, and Dean was struck by a strange punch of awareness when his shapely mouth twisted into an angry line. A snap of electricity lifted the hair on his arms and Dean wondered if Gabriel felt it too.

The human details, descriptors that Dean's brain allowed him to catalog, to acknowledge, were easy. Maybe because he couldn't yet drag his eyes from the creature's handsome face to the long span of dark feathers still hanging half outside the door.

"Look at me. All of me," the gravelly voice ground out. "You'd be the first, in a very long time."

"Castiel," Gabriel murmured, shifting as if to go to him.

_To protect_ _him_, Dean thought, mind spinning fruitlessly, trying to catch up. He cleared his throat, a need for control his natural defense mechanism. "Turn around."

Castiel's eyebrows shot up and he met the green-eyed stranger's steady gaze. The unfamiliar hum from the previous night kicked up anew and he carefully smoothed his expression lest he reveal the turmoil that was taking place right under his skin. He maneuvered more fully into the kitchen and let the screen door close with a soft _thwump._ Then he slowly turned around.

If Dean didn't know better, he'd swear he was dreaming.

Once, as a teenager, he'd taken Sammy and a preteen girlfriend to a drive-through animal safari and he'd been allowed to hold a rehabilitating bald eagle. The zookeeper had placed a long, heavy glove over his hand and arm for protection and then gently positioned the eagle in place. It had been injured in a fire and the sanctuary was caring for the stately bird until it could be rereleased into the wild. Dean would never forget the ripple of bone and ligament when the bird's powerful wings had flapped over his head, nor the way its intelligent eyes had looked through him, reading him and taking his measure.

Castiel's wings were like that eagle's. The large primary feathers were a deep blue-black, more than a foot in length and at least five inches at their widest point. Dean had inched close enough that he could see the translucent shaft threading through the center of each plume. The next longest layer was edged in a silvery grey and tucked into Castiel's sides, creating an oddly striped pattern that Dean imagined was pretty damn striking when the wings were fully spread.

Dean's eyes fell lower. The skin of Castiel's hips was smooth and tan, glistening with a fine layer of moisture from the rain, and Dean had seen that his chest was the same. _Normal. _But at mid back a fine, dark layer of soft down appeared in the same iridescent shade as the darkest feathers, a holographic sheen over the musculature between where his scapula should lay, traveling up to his neck and disappearing into his hairline. Dean unconsciously stepped closer and Castiel tensed, wings drawing in tight, both men freezing for an interminable breath of uncertainty.

"I," Dean swallowed, flushing. "Sorry. I won't touch." But _damn_, he wanted to. His fingers _itched._

Castiel shifted, feathers fluttering nervously, and his strangely clawed feet clicked against the wood floor. Dean glanced down and then quickly away, but not before he had seen the old fashioned pants that Castiel wore, shorter than any he had ever seen outside of historical dramas. They looked soft and well-worn, slung low across narrow hips and smoothly fitted to a firm backside.

Dean became immediately conscious of the fact that he was standing unnaturally close. He could _smell_ him.

"Are you quite done?" Castiel swung around, narrowly avoiding slamming Dean with a wing joint. He realized belatedly that it _hadn't _been his imagination he could feel breath along his neck.

Dean took a giant step back. "Ah, yeah. I'm done."

"Well?" Those piercing blue eyes that had seemed so hesitantly responsive a few seconds ago now raked over Dean's face in an angry glare. He didn't wait for a response. "You will leave this property as soon as the crossing is clear. And you will never speak of what you've seen here."

Dean blinked. "Now wait a minute—"

"No!" Castiel slammed a fist against the counter and both Dean and Gabriel jumped. "You will leave, or by the grace of God or the devil himself I will _make_ you leave."

He shoved through the back door before Dean could come up with a suitably indignant retort.

Dean dragged the back of his hand across his mouth in frustration and glanced at Gabriel, still cowering by the living room door. "He always that pleasant?"

Gabriel sighed heavily. "Mostly, yes."

Dean chuckled, caught off guard by the former priest's honesty. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I still didn't get his _story_." He air quoted for emphasis.

"Well then you'd better sit down," Gabe smiled. "And I'll fix us a snack. This may take a while."

…

Dean climbed the curved staircase in the waning light, trying to imagine the mansion in her prime. The windows were drapeless, although he supposed there was little need for privacy in the swamp; who would dare venture into this old haunt? Resident winged beast notwithstanding.

He stood at the window on the first landing, imagining the long ago scene Gabriel had described to him. It was surreal; too impossible to be a literal historical retelling and yet…

Somewhere above him wandered a creature that _looked_ and _sounded _like a man. With wings.

Dean knew Gabriel was omitting pieces of the story, whether from a sense of loyalty to Castiel, or because the knowledge was potentially dangerous in the wrong hands. He bristled at the thought that _he_ might be considered a risk. He instinctively knew the truth probably lay hidden somewhere between the words Gabriel had woven in his lyrical tale, and the eyes of the man he called Castiel. For now, Dean was content to sleep on it.

He had spent the remainder of the afternoon tinkering with the car and assessing the damage, one eye on the overgrowth separating him from the swamp. He would need either a wrecker or a decently-stocked auto parts store, because his basic case of tools from the trunk was not going to be enough to get his baby running again on his own.

He spent the evening arguing with Gabe about the likelihood of repairing the crossing by mid-week so they could take the old truck into the nearest town. Sam would be good to assume Dean had holed up somewhere to wait out the storm for a day or two, but longer than that and he would start worrying. Dean needed to get to a phone. And a town, but a phone would solve his most pressing problem.

_Well_, he mused. His most pressing problem was finding a bed without getting attacked by a giant bird. Man. _Birdman_. He hid his smirk behind his fingers, just in case.

The old house creaked and groaned as he climbed the remaining steps and he wondered belatedly if he believed in ghosts. Old place like this, all those lost souls? This house was permeated with death. He quickly decided he wasn't going to think about _that, _as a timely whistle of cool air brushed the back of his neck.

He had convinced Gabriel that it made no sense for Dean to kick the man out of his own bed just because he happened to be stranded here for another night. Or eight. Conveniently adjacent to a (veritably) empty mansion.

Castiel would never even know he was there.

"He'll know, and he won't like it. Mark my words," Gabe had grumbled, sliding their dinner dishes into the sudsy water with more force than necessary.

"So? What's he going to do? Brood me to death?" Dean smiled his most charming smile when Gabe turned to argue and the priest chuckled.

"You're impossible, Dean Winchester. God go with you." And he had waved Dean out the back door with a wet hand.

Dean ran his palm along the smooth wooden banister as he crossed the second floor landing, imagining the hands that had carved it, sanding and polishing the wood until gleamed; the carpenters who had installed it, painting the spindles a creamy white. The little girl Gabe had said once lived here, who liked to slide down the curve on her backside, into her laughing daddy's arms.

Dean wondered what had happened to that little girl, after her daddy turned into a monster.

That was one part of the story Gabe had definitely skimmed over.

He paused outside of one of the doors in the narrow hallway, listening, still. Dust motes floated in his peripheral vision and a floorboard creaked somewhere to his right; Castiel, in his rooms.

Brooding, probably.

He reached for the dark brass knob and eased it over, pushing the door open with a loud groan. He winced as the sound echoed off the tall ceiling. So much for Operation Covert Sleep.

"What do you think you are doing?" Castiel's growl was deep and entirely too close, having appeared on Dean's left, rather than from the right like he expected. Hot breath fanned across his cheek.

Dean backed away from the door and held up the flat of his palm in defense, tone soothing. "I'm looking for an empty bed. Care to point me in the right direction?"

"Get out," Cas spat, low and menacing, eyes deepening to indigo in the dim light.

Dean felt a sliver of fear lace up his spine.

For all that he looked like a man, this was not a man. He should probably remember that.

He took another step backward. "Calm down." He stumbled when Castiel advanced on him and he cursed under his breath, face heating in embarrassment. He was a goddamn _soldier_. And he sure as hell wasn't about to be bullied by a—

The loud crack of splitting wood was Dean's only warning before there was nothing but a sickening emptiness at his back. His stomach ricocheted into his throat as his body broke through the rotten banister, his breath escaping in a _whoosh_ when he was brought up short as Castiel caught him by the wrist.

Their eyes held, Dean dangling thirty feet over the marble foyer, Castiel crouched on the floor of the landing, one hand vise tight around Dean's arm. Castiel grunted and began to pull, his face turning red with the effort, wings spreading wide to assist in leveraging Dean's deadweight. As soon as he was able, Dean hooked a knee over the broken spike of a spindle, and Castiel gave one last sharp tug, toppling him to the floor in a heap.

Dean knelt there, on hands and knees, breathing through his nose to calm his racing heart. He peered up at Castiel, who was bent at the waist and breathing just as hard.

"You're stronger than you look," he said, not sure whether or not he should be embarrassed when the words ended on a wheeze.

Castiel straightened, grimacing as he shook out his hands, fists clenching open and closed. "You're not as smart as you look."

Dean rocked back on his heels, peering over the edge to the floor below, before he stood and moved a safe distance away. He hoped he hid the little shudder that wriggled through his body. He glanced over, licking his lips. "You think I look smart?"

Castiel huffed and bit the inside of his cheek. "Not at the moment, no."

Dean swallowed his own grin and stuck out a hand. "Dean Winchester. Truce?"

Castiel stared at it for a beat before he closed his fingers around Dean's.

Their eyes met and Dean felt a prickle of awareness, followed by a wash of disappointment when Castiel dropped his hand.

"A truce seems fair if you're going to insist on trying to kill yourself while on my land."

Dean blinked, the words taking a moment to register. "Kill my—. I did not," he declared hotly. "How is an alligator my fault? Or uh, uh, a flood!"

"You drove willingly across a clearly dangerous and water-covered passage."

'Because _you_ wouldn't let me in the house!"

"That was not me, that was Gabriel."

"Oh, shut up." Dean threw his hands up in disgust. "Gabriel does whatever you tell him to. Don't try to stand there and tell _me _that you didn't tell him to get rid of me."

"That doesn't negate the fact that you attempted to drown."

"Attempted to," Dean sputtered, wondering if he could get a solid punch in before the bastard knocked him to the ground with his giant, creepy wing.

"Castiel? Is everything all right?" Gabriel stood at the bottom of the steps. He frowned at the wide section of missing banister, broken pieces littering the foyer floor. "What happened?"

"Dean fell off the landing."

"Dean was practically _pushed_ off the landing," Dean grumbled under his breath.

"I told you we should have replaced that banister."

"Ah ha!" Dean crowed, jabbing a finger in Castiel's direction.

Castiel stared at him blandly until Dean lowered his arm. He glanced down at Gabriel. "Dean will be staying here tonight. Good night, Gabe."

"All right," Gabriel said hesitantly. He peered up at Dean, eyes narrowing. "You'll call if you need anything."

Dean cocked his head. "And by _call,_ you mean literally stick my head out the window and yell, right?"

Gabe chuckled. "Essentially, yes."

"That's what I thought," Dean sighed. "Will do, padre. G'night." He gave a little wave and turned to find Castiel had disappeared. "And good night to you too, Mr. Personality," he muttered.

He ignored the first door he had attempted to open (although _that_ bared further investigating in the bright light of day), and wandered further into the depths of the house, hopefully far away from his bristly host, and toward a suitable bed.

…


	5. Chapter 4

Dean was disoriented when he awoke, a pale, grey light streaming across his face, warming his skin in the already humid room. He blinked rapidly and struggled to sit up, blearily choosing the dusty chest of drawers under the window as a focal point while he shook off the last remnants of sleep.

The previous day flooded back and he sighed, scrubbing his face with his hands. Last night, he had lain looking up at the ornately carved ceiling medallions, wondering if the past twenty-four hours had been a dream. If even now maybe he was tucked away in a hospital ward somewhere, with a massive head injury, his mind having created an elaborate fantasy, influenced by a brutally dark storm and a malevolent mansion on the bayou.

Apparently, judging by a strong caffeine craving and a pretty serious need to pee, he wasn't dreaming. Or if he was, he was damn good at vivid imagery.

He stretched, wincing at the crick in his neck from a strange pillow. He could really use a long hot shower and a pile of pancakes. And coffee. Lots of coffee. Throwing off the blanket, he padded across the room to the window.

At least it wasn't raining. And the water levels looked like they may have receded since the previous day too; maybe Gabriel's truck would be able to clear the crossing by the weekend after all.

The walls and floor seemed to settle around him, unaccustomed to an occupant, creaking and groaning in that way old houses have. Dean grabbed his boots from beside the bed and left the quiet room. The silence was vaguely disconcerting, no electronic hum of appliance or gadgetry or even light bulb. He could use a little human interaction.

Or not so human.

The hallway didn't seem quite so long as it had the night before. He had slept, soundly, in the last bedroom on the floor, in a wide four-poster bed and on clean linens that smelled of sunshine and green grass. It had given him pause, the bed so recently made up, as if for a visitor.

At the bottom of the stairs Dean noted that the mess from the previous night had been cleared away, the splintered pieces of wood gone, the floor freshly swept. He wandered through the ground floor, finding the kitchen and pantry easily enough, but a bathroom proving somewhat more difficult.

Surely even winged men needed indoor plumbing, he mused, before giving up in favor of the back yard and a quick wash afterward in the kitchen sink.

…

Castiel sat up, awake in an instant, heart pounding.

Something was off.

He jumped out of bed and was across the room and through the door before he registered the faint pulsing of a word in his head. _Dean Dean Dean. _ He stood on the landing torn between checking on his charismatic and irritating houseguest and fleeing through the front doors, flying until his head was clear and his blood was calm.

His hand was holding the knob, escape imminent, when he realized what had woken him.

Bacon.

…

"So you're up." Dean neatly flipped a pancake in a cast iron skillet.

"What are you doing?"

The words were flat, Dean would even dare say menacing, although the delivery was hampered somewhat by the briefest flick of Cas' tongue along his bottom lip. He hid his smile. _Gotcha. _

"I'm making breakfast," he winked, eyes twinkling.

Castiel grunted in response, shifting uneasily in the doorway.

"There's a plate for you on the table if you'll stop fidgeting." Dean walked to said plate and slid the pancake on top of a stack already in place. "You make me nervous," he said bluntly, spatula paused midair.

Castiel's mouth fell open. The tips of his ears burned and he scowled. _Charismatic and irritating._ "I apologize."

Dean had to bite back another grin when Castiel's feathers literally ruffled. It wasn't often you came face to face with the origin of a popular expression. "Apology accepted. Now sit down and dig in." He turned away from the table to finish with the pancake batter. "It's my _thanks for saving my life again_ peace offering," he threw over his shoulder. _And for not killing me in my sleep,_ he thought wryly, although the more time he spent in Castiel's presence, the less threat he sensed. He heard the chair scrape and the faint _click click_ of claws. That was probably never not going to be a little creepy.

He took a long pull from his mug of coffee and belatedly realized he hadn't offered Cas any.

_Cas._ He snorted softly and poured a second mug. Well, Castiel was a mouthful anyway. He slid the cup in front of the man currently frowning at the plate of pancakes and bacon in front of him. His dark hair was askew and his cheeks were faintly pink, and damn if Dean didn't find him strangely charming in the morning sun. He picked up the small bottle of maple syrup he'd found in the cupboard beside the fridge (a vintage 1950's model bulbous style that he'd last seen the likes of in Bobby's basement) and drizzled it over the pancakes on Cas' plate.

"Say when."

Cas' frown deepened. "When what?"

Dean chuckled and twisted his wrist to cut off the flow. "That looks like a good start. Now eat. Your pissy examination of some quality breakfast food is going to hurt the cook's feelings."

"I apologize," Cas repeated stiffly, and picked up a fork.

Dean sat down across from him and tilted his head. "Why are you apologizing?" He chomped off half a piece of bacon in one bite and chewed thoughtfully, studying Cas' hands as he primly cut a triangle of pancake, gingerly dipping it in syrup before closing his lips around the fork. His grumpy expression melted instantly to one that came pretty darn close to ecstasy. Dean realized he was staring and cleared his throat. _Great._ Now _his_ cheeks were pink. "Don't you ever wear a shirt?" he muttered irritably.

Castiel's wings expanded behind him instantaneously, rattling the silverware on the table. Dean's eyes widened; the span was at least ten feet.

Cas continued to eat, cutting another triangle of pancake, chewing calmly.

"Fair enough," Dean said under his breath, and popped the rest of the bacon in his mouth.

They ate the remainder of their breakfast in the uneasy silence of the quiet kitchen, the scrape of a fork across a plate or the rustle of a linen napkin the only sounds.

Dean tried not to stare at the elegant fingers handling the fine old silver, both utensils and manners far more refined than what he typically found himself in the company of.

Castiel tried to tune out the edgy movements of the man across the table.

Dean finished first and hesitated, wracking his brain for any meager scrap of dining etiquette he might have picked up in his travels. Unfortunately, mess halls and pubs weren't known for their decorum. He settled for watching Castiel finish, giving up on the not staring thing because as the sun shifted higher in the sky, a ray of light slanted through the window, dancing along the edges of a wing.

The color was incredible, not blue and not black, with an unusual sheen that Dean thought might be green if Cas would move just a little to the right.

Castiel cleared his throat pointedly and Dean started. _Damn. _

"Sorry, man," he smiled ruefully, shrugging in apology. "Wings."

Cas snorted, surprising them both. "Why are you apologizing?" He tossed Dean's earlier question back to him.

"Because you make me nervous," Dean repeated with a grin and the atmosphere in the kitchen immediately warmed.

When they both stood at the same time, they glanced at each other and laughed self-consciously. Cas helped Dean clear the table, and it was an awkward dance of bodies and personal space negotiation, Cas taking up more room than Dean was accustomed to, but also seemingly unaware of Dean's discomfort when he moved too close. Or rather, Dean's _lack_ of discomfort with that and an increasing inability to interpret it.

Dean really wanted to touch that wing.

The sink full, dishes soaking, Cas fidgeted nervously again, poised to flee; Dean was a little surprised he could read him so easily.

"Big plans today?" he asked nonchalantly, selfishly wanting to hold him just a little longer.

"What? No. Gardening."

The fact that this was stated so seriously and with such cool composure was the only thing that kept Dean from cracking a joke.

He hissed when he slid his hands into the soapy water and the suds hit a cut on the back of his wrist.

"What's wrong?" Castiel tensed, alert, unconsciously stepping forward.

Dean shook his hand free of the soap and grimaced. "One of those damn chickens pecked me when I was trying to get an egg." He held up his wrist for inspection, the small slash visibly reddened. "It's nothing. I just forgot."

When Cas didn't respond, he looked over to find the other man fighting what Dean suspected might be a legitimate, fully-fledged smile. "What?"

"A chicken." Cas lost the battle and laughed softly, but he at least had the grace to partially hide his amusement behind a palm.

"A broody hen," Dean complained in correction. He pointed a sudsy finger at Cas. "Which, _you_ would know a thing or two about."

Cas straightened, frowning. "Beg pardon?"

Dean huffed, shaking his head. So much for his long-withstanding ability to quip his way out of uncomfortable situations. "Nevermind."

"You may," Cas hesitated, head canting to the right, eyes shifting away from Dean's when he glanced over. "You could help? In the garden?"

It was a question, but also an olive branch, and Dean recognized it as such. "I'm not really much in the way of green thumbs, Cas. But maybe. I'm going to gauge the depth of the water first, see how close she is to crossing."

"Do not go into the bayou," Cas was instantly tense again, his already perfect posture rigid, jaw set.

"Relax," Dean chuckled. "No suicide attempts today." He winked when Cas remained hovering in the doorway. "Promise."

"I will leave you, then," Cas said stiffly, formal again. "Thank you for breakfast."

"You're welcome," Dean said, but he knew by the rustle of feathers the words fell on an empty room. He sighed and reached for a towel to dry his hands. One of these days he was going to be the one to have the last word.

…

Gabe peered into the kitchen, sighing in relief when he spotted Dean at the refrigerator. "Good morning," he offered, gently closing the door behind him. He sniffed in surprise. "You cooked."

Dean grinned. "I did. I'd offer you some but we ate it all." He scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully. "And that was pretty rude. Sorry."

"You ate. You and Castiel."

Gabe's blank look tickled Dean in ways he couldn't quite comprehend. "Me and Cas," he confirmed.

Gabe's mouth worked open and closed before he gave up and expelled a long rush of air. "I don't know what to say."

Dean's eyes narrowed on his shocked face. "Apparently you're trying to say one of us," he jabbed his finger toward the empty house to indicate its primary occupant, "was in danger of not making it down for breakfast." He shut the refrigerator door. "I'm assuming you weren't worried about the fella with the feathers."

"I wasn't worried," Gabe rushed to assure Dean, although his twitchy mannerisms were wholly unconvincing. "Not about your safety."

"You're a terrible liar," Dean laughed. "But I'll forgive you if you let me use your bathroom. I would love a shower."

"There's no shower." Gabe sighed in relief. Dean and Castiel had apparently both weathered the night well. And the morning. "But you are welcome to the bathtub." He hesitated before offering a second choice. "You could use Castiel's shower. It's quite large."

"Cas has a shower." Now it was Dean's turn to wear a vacant expression.

Gabe laughed. "Yes. And it's _very_ impressive. His size requirements compelled an unusual design."

Dean blinked twice. And then twice more. He knew the former priest wasn't trying to torture him with visions of a very naked, very winged Castiel, _wet_, but once that image was lodged in his head he had a feeling it would be a long time before he expelled it. "Ahh, maybe just the tub today," he said gruffly.

"Of course," Gabe said, oblivious to Dean's discomfort. "Do you have clothing in your car? I'd be happy to add your laundry to my own."

Dean followed him out the back door and down the steps. "Yeah, about that. Where do you get your clothes, anyway? I haven't seen pants like the ones Cas was wearing except on TV."

"Television," Gabe murmured.

"You like TV, padre?" Dean asked, grinning.

"No," Gabe shook his head quickly. "I," he swallowed. "I have a small set. I watch the news."

"Liar," Dean grinned. He bumped his shoulder against the smaller man's. "So what's your poison? Daytime talk shows?" He wiggled his eyebrows. "Dancing with the Stars?" Gabe flushed, waving him off, and Dean laughed, spinning around and heading in the opposite direction. "Clothes," he said. "Be right back."

He retrieved his duffle from the trunk, shading his eyes and peering into the sky. No sign of any _carrion_ today. He wondered how often and how far Castiel flew. This was an isolated area of the country, to be sure, but he imagined it still held a danger for a creature trying to remain hidden and undiscovered. He glanced at the second floor windows of the mansion when he turned, musing that maybe Cas was showering too.

_Nope. Nopenopenope_, he thought, frantically humming the opening lines of John Denver's _Thank God I'm a Country Boy_ to deflect that image-laden mine field.

He was still chuckling at his brain's perplexing choice of song a few minutes later when he ducked into Gabe's little house.

…

In full sun, the feathers had a definite green sheen.

Dean only knew this because he had stumbled upon one as he walked across the yard, angling toward the far northern corner where he could see Castiel kneeling in the dirt. He turned the feather over in his hand, holding it to the light and studying the shifting hues. He held it suspended over the thick overgrowth, meaning to drop it into the grass, but changed his mind at the last minute and tucked it into his hip pocket instead.

He could see the instant Cas knew he was approaching because his wings raised, on guard, waiting. Deciding he had been getting the most honest reactions by forcing an element of surprise, Dean squatted in the dirt beside him.

"Dean Winchester, reporting for duty." He was rewarded by the unguarded look of surprise Cas shot him.

Cas recovered quickly. "I am unsure I should accept your assistance. I would like to eat this winter."

Dean laughed. "Ouch. I said I didn't have a green thumb, not that I was completely inept. I have skills."

"I am sure that you do," Cas murmured.

Dean glanced sharply at the handsome face, something fluttering to life in his midsection at the husky tone, but Cas busied himself snipping off a low-lying branch on the rose bush he tended. "So you eat roses? Is that a delicacy for your kind or a personal dietary quirk?"

"You would amuse me more if you would take up that pair of shears and help," Cas replied calmly. _Snip._

Dean snorted. "Stop with the nosy ass questions, Dean. Got it."

_Snip._

"You weren't being nosy," Cas said carefully after a moment. "I eat food."

Dean chuckled and sat back on his butt in the dirt, deciding he'd rather watch than participate. "I know that, Cas. I fed you, remember?" He rested his forearms on his knees.

Cas picked up the second pair of shears and held them out, meeting Dean's gaze. "I remember."

Dean fought the urge to shiver. _Damn._ Cas' deep rumble, the blue of his eyes, the sun on their backs, and the casual intimacy with which they sat together on the ground combined at once to give Dean a punch of awareness.

He thought, inexplicably, of the feather in his pocket. He wondered if it carried the same warm, mellow scent that listed over him as a breeze fluttered by.

"My daughter's," Cas said, interrupting Dean's crazy train of thought.

"Huh?" Dean resisted the urge to scoot closer. Or maybe farther away. He wasn't entirely sure which would slake the puzzling spike of _want_ now simmering in his gut. He accepted the shears, but their fingers very carefully did not graze.

"The roses. I planted them on the day she was born."

Dean tore his eyes from the messy spikes of dark hair and looked at the thorny bushes in front of him. The last blooms of the season were full and lush, a deep, dark pink. It took him a moment before the math hit him.

"Wait a minute, these are two hundred years old?" He sat up straight. _ No way._

Cas laughed softly and trimmed away another errant branch. "Thereabouts." He sighed and the sound was wistful. "I fear they aren't for this world much longer, however. They no longer respond to careful monitoring. Perhaps their time here is done."

It was the longest string of words Cas had spoken to him and it took Dean a moment to parse through their melodic tones to comprehend his meaning. "They're dying."

"Yes," Cas said. He laid the shears on the ground. "So you can see why I would prefer you not hasten their demise," he deadpanned.

It took Dean four seconds to register the twinkle in his eyes.

"Funny," he said dryly. "Where are you going?" he asked when Cas rolled deftly to his feet.

"To check the squash."

"Squash?" Dean grimaced. _No thank you._ "Hey, Cas?" he asked after a few more moments lazily soaking up the sun.

"Hmm?"

Dean studied the man bent over the green vines, wondering vaguely if he was about to destroy whatever truce they seemed to have forged. But he had had an idea while he bathed in Gabe's tiny bathroom and, well, the day was not getting any younger. "Do you think you could fly me over the bayou? Drop me on the other side?"

Castiel straightened, and from his rod-stiff bearing, Dean knew he was correct in assuming it would be a sensitive request. He had a feeling Cas didn't venture over the bayou often.

"You would like to leave." Cas moved to a new plant and picked a fat, yellow squash, dropping it to the grass beside the other vegetables.

"Well, yeah. I'd like to go home," Dean offered, using his knee as leverage to assist himself off the ground. "But I need to fix my car first. At least find a phone. Let my brother know I'm alive." He tried not to feel slighted when Cas moved away from him as he approached. "Gabe said it wasn't more than five or six miles."

"Seven," Cas said, quietly dropping another squash to the ground.

"Seven," Dean huffed. "Do you think you could do that for me?" He jumped when Cas straightened, his wings expanding and fluttering abruptly, preparing, Dean realized, for flight. "Wait a minute," he laughed, holding out a hand. "I need to go grab my wallet."

When he emerged from under the shade of Gabe's porch a few minutes later, he could see Cas waiting by the crossing.

"Dean," Gabe stopped him with a hand on his arm. "I don't have to tell you, ask you—"

"I won't say anything," Dean broke in, his eyes on the far away figure by the water. "I'll be back by dark." He left before Gabe could respond.

When he reached the edge of the crossing, murky water rushing by, high and fast and frustratingly deep, he grinned sheepishly at the man standing in the shadow of a cypress, looking for all the world like a fantasy novel come to life. "I'm afraid of heights. And I never fly."

Castiel pushed off of the tree trunk and approached him slowly. If Dean didn't know better, he might even say _stealthily._

"Close your eyes."

Dean did, and didn't scrutinize his hasty compliance too closely.

He was weightless and then he was not, and when he was _not, _he was flat on his back, skidding across the gravel and dirt. He coughed, groaning as he rolled to prop himself on an elbow. He glared across the bayou where his _flight_ _aid_ had already returned, his retreating outline framed by the decaying mansion in the background.

"Don't wait up!" he called sarcastically, wincing at the raw soreness of his side as he climbed to his feet. He brushed off his jeans and grimaced at the long, empty road in front of him. "Seven miles," he muttered and began to walk.

…

Gabriel found Cas standing by the Impala, studying the car's dark hood as if he stared hard enough, long enough, he might decipher the enigma of the man it belonged to.

"Well that," Cas said softly, "is that."

Gabe looked up at him in surprise. "You don't think he'll be back? He seemed awfully attached to this car."

"Would you come back, if you could escape?"

Castiel's bleak look held more emotion than Gabe had seen from him in a very long time.

"Cas," he murmured.

"I'm going to tend the roses."

"Cas," Gabriel tried again, reaching for his friend and missing, Castiel's movements too fluid, too graceful, a weightless dance across the overgrown grasses until he was a distant figure backlit by the sun.

…


	6. Chapter 5

The town of Revelation appeared out of the deep green of the landscape gradually; a house here, a farm there, a gas station, a quiet park, until Main Street loomed before Dean. Downtown was a throwback to mid-century America, each tall building facade a classic rectangular shape of brick and mortar.

He passed a red and white barbershop pole, smiled at a girl sitting at a café table outside of a coffee shop, and spotted Bloom's Hardware a few doors down. There was a spiffy green lawn mower parked out front, a lively _Sale!_ sign on the seat, and flats of perennials on a tall wire shelf flanking the windows. The overhead bell pealed when he pushed open the door and stepped into the cool, dim interior.

"Be right with you," a voice called from the back of the store.

"No hurry," Dean tossed in the direction of the voice. The aisles at the front of the store were full of paint cans and painting supplies, a knee-to-ceiling display of colorful swatches taking up the majority of one wall. He spotted the automotive section near the back of the store and picked his way around the crowded displays surrounding a glass case holding the cash register.

An aproned man, rotund and jovial with a shiny bald head and silvery side burns greeted him just as he rounded the corner to look at spark plugs.

"Can I help you find anything?" He held out his hand expectantly and Dean shook it, smiling at the small town charm.

"Thanks. Just picking up a few things to do some repairs." He grinned ruefully and scratched his chin. "I got caught in the storm a couple nights ago and flooded my engine."

The man tsked, shaking his head in sympathy. "Happens often in these parts, unfortunately. Where are you from, son?"

"Lawrence," Dean replied. "Kansas. Was just passing through when she hit."

"You're lucky," the man said somberly. "We lost a couple of good people that night in the flood." He held out his hand again. "Fred Bloom."

"Dean Winchester."

"Did you try and turn over the engine?"

"Yeah," Dean said, head cocked when Fred frowned. "Why?"

Fred shook his head. "Might have blown your engine then, depending on how deep the water was. You'll need to pull all the spark plugs, replace all the fluids and filters." He started perusing the aisle, mumbling to himself as he rifled through drawer of well-worn repair books. "Probably drain the gas and flush the lines too. What kind of car did you say it was?"

"Sixty-seven Chevy Impala." Dean bit his lip, pounding a fist silently against his thigh. _Of course._ He should have known better than to try and start her after she'd been submerged. Assuming she _had_ been submerged. He still hadn't gotten the full story out of Gabriel about that.

Fred whistled, a gleam in his eye when he glanced over with a grin. "Now that's a car. And bless her, too. Those newfangled pieces of horse shit don't tolerate the barest hint of dampness."

Dean snorted and relaxed his fist. Maybe he hadn't completely fucked his baby up.

Fred dug a little deeper and pulled a manual free in triumph. "Here we go." He passed the booklet to Dean. "That should get you started. Now. Let's fix you up with some supplies."

Dean was ushered through the small but well-stocked automotive section and ended up with two large bags of goods and directions to the nearest diner when his stomach rumbled heartily.

"Benny's is what you're cravin'. He cooks a chicken fried steak that'll make you cry," Fred said in reverence. "And his jambalaya, ooh-eee." He smacked his lips. "My mouth waters just thinkin' about it."

Dean laughed. "I'm not so much a rice man, but I could dig into a chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes."

"Well, Benny's it is, then. You come back and let me see that car when you've got'er running, you hear?"

"Will do." Dean gave a little wave and negotiated the crowded paint aisle to the front of the store. He paused when his eyes fell on the cheery colors of the flowers visible through the window. "Hey, Fred?"

"Yeah?" Fred poked his head around the aisle, peering at Dean with the same friendly smile.

"Do you have any suggestions for a rose bush that's, uh," Dean hesitated, flustered and unsure. He had no idea what symptom's Cas' rose bush was displaying. "Not doing so hot?" he finished lamely.

"Hmm. Not blooming?"

"No, there are blooms." Dean shifted his bags and they bumped against his legs. "It's an old bush," he offered tentatively, hoping like hell Fred didn't ask too many questions.

"Heirloom?" Fred asked, already turning down an aisle with a vibrantly painted _Garden_ sign hanging above it. He popped back around the corner when Dean didn't immediately follow. "They smell real good? Like grandma's roses?" He winked and Dean chuckled.

"Yeah. They smell nice." Dean felt his cheeks warm and glanced at the door.

"Try this," Fred said, startling Dean when he appeared at his side. He held out a green and yellow box. "Mix two scoops with a gallon of water and feed your bush once a week. Should perk up in no time. But if not," he wagged a finger at Dean. "You come back and I'll get out the big guns."

Dean laughed again and accepted the box. "How much?"

"On the house. You just bring that handsome car of yours round so I can take her for a spin around the block, capisce?"

"You got it," Dean said, backing out of the door, bell ringing merrily as he stepped into the bright afternoon sun. "Thanks, Fred." The man was already hustling to the back of the store, his hand thrown up in a jaunty, backwards wave.

Dean started down the sidewalk and stopped in awe a half a block later when he spotted a payphone mounted against a brick wall. He hadn't seen a model like this since he was a kid. He carefully set the bags at his feet and dug through his pockets for all his change. "Here goes nothin'," he muttered, dialing Sam's number.

The recording instructed him to insert an insane amount to complete the call and he cursed under his breath before he hung up. He wondered if collect calls were still a thing, and picked up the handset, ready to try again. After negotiating with a bored operator, Sam's voice came on the line a few moments later.

"Dean!"

"Sammy," Dean sighed. "Thank God."

"Where the hell are you? I've been worried sick. Why haven't you been answering your phone?" Sam's voice fluctuated between anger and fear and Dean grinned.

"Vacationing in the most ridiculous mansion you've ever seen."

"I'm not kidding, Dean. Where are you?"

"Okay, okay, hold onto your panties." Dean pursed his lips. The trick with keeping things from Sam was to tell a carefully edited version of the truth, because he could notoriously smell a lie, especially if Dean was telling it. "I'm still in Louisiana. Got caught in the storm. My phone's a lost cause." That was accurate enough.

"So are you on your way home? What part of Louisiana? How far did you get?"

"How's Jo?" Dean asked, deflecting. "She still puking?"

"Don't change the subject. And she's fine. Food poisoning."

"We all ate the same things," Dean said incredulously.

"Yeah, well, apparently you and I have iron stomachs. She's on the mend now. Feeling guilty because we thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere."

_Not too far from the truth, _Dean thought. "Nah, I'm okay. But the car's in rough shape. She flooded a little. It'll be a few days til I have her dried out and running."

Sam was silent and Dean fidgeted. "You still there? This call ain't cheap."

"You called me collect, Dean. That means I'm paying." Sam's voice was amused and Dean relaxed.

"Just looking out for your budget-conscious ass. Can you let Bobby know I'll be a few days later than planned?"

"Sure," Sam said, and Dean could hear the hesitancy in his voice. "You sure you're okay? You don't need me to fly down? Or bring the wrecker? We could tow the car back."

"No," Dean said and if the protest was too quick, or held too much intensity, he ignored it and prayed Sam would do the same. "I can handle it. She'll be good to go in a few days."

"And your phone? Do you have a number where I can reach you?"

Dean bit his lip. "Ah, I'll have to stop by the store and grab a throwaway I guess. I'll call you as soon as I have a number."

"Okay, but—"

"Oh would you look at the time," Dean interrupted. "Time is money, Sammy. I'll call you later."

"Dean!"

Dean hung up the phone with a smile. Sam would be cursing him the rest of the night. His stomach growled again and he retrieved his sacks from the sidewalk. Time to eat.

…

Benny's was one of those deep-fried, homecooked oases Dean loved to sniff out on old two-lane highways and in backwater towns. The waitresses wore pastel uniforms with dainty white pocket squares, and the cook leaned over the window separating the kitchen and the counter with a lazy smile and a deep Southern twang.

"Paula, you gonna get this meatloaf special out to those fine folks in that booth over there or am I gonna have to fire your pert butt?"

"Benny, the day you fire someone is the day pigs fly," a brassy blonde retorted, taking the plates from his hands and sashaying her way across the polished checkered floor.

Dean surveyed the scene with a quick glance and decided to take a seat at the counter. He slid onto a red pleather stool and tucked his packages under his feet.

"Well, hello stranger. What can I do you for?" This waitress was a redhead, her heart-shaped face nearly overwhelmed by big green eyes. She tapped a pencil against the side of her glossy mouth.

"We feed the customers, Maisy, we don't eat them," Benny drawled from his perch in the window. "You don't have to take any sass from her, mind you," he said to Dean with a wink. "Just shoo her off if she gets too fresh."

"Benny, shut up," Maisy protested, but her eyes never left Dean's and the words were delivered with an inviting grin.

Dean answered it with one of his own. "I'm just here for the chicken fried steak. And," he nodded toward the glass-covered cake stands on the counter. "Maybe some of that pie?"

"Mashed potatoes or fries?" Maisy asked efficiently.

"Mashed."

"Pecan or apple?" Maisy scribbled across her pad.

"Two of each."

Maisy's eyebrows shot up to her hairline.

"To go," Dean amended. "And you'd better double the chicken fried steak too."

"That's quite an appetite you got there, stranger," Benny noted, taking the slip of paper from Maisy's fuchsia-tipped fingers.

Dean shrugged. "I heard it was the best I'll ever taste."

"Damn straight," the cook grinned, tipping his hat and shoving off the window. He disappeared into the kitchen.

Dean relaxed on the bar stool, gratefully accepting a cup of coffee from the redhead even though he hadn't asked for it, content to people watch while he waited.

…

The walk back to Godwyne seemed twice as long and Dean cursed the humid heat that settled over him, thick and wet, his t-shirt sticking to his back in patches of dampness, rivulets of sweat running into his eyes. He wished he had accepted a ride from the truck that had stopped about three miles back, but he would have felt funny asking them to drop him off anywhere close to the mansion. He sighed in relief when he spotted the big old house through the tree line and shifted the cardboard box that contained all of his purchases. Benny the cook had insisted he transfer his bags to the box when he found out Dean was on foot, swearing _those flimsy ass plastic sacks will never hold up. _

Now he just had to figure out how to get Cas or Gabe's attention from this side of the bayou.

…

Cas studied a thorny leaf carefully, inspecting a brownish spot near the edge, wondering if it was a fungus or perhaps the result of an insect. The roses had not bloomed as significantly this season, decreasing incrementally each year, although the fragrant pink blossoms were still heavy and sweet on the branches. He touched the rippling edge of a petal with a fingertip.

He looked up sharply when a faint whistle carried over the rustle of the trees. His eyes widened when he spotted Dean Winchester on the other side of the waterway, arms full and a wide grin on his handsome face.

He brushed the dirt from his hands and stood, spine straight and stiff.

He swallowed the strange flutter in his throat.

"You mind if I hitch a ride?" Dean called as Cas approached.

Cas studied him through the trees, noting the pink of his cheeks and nose, and the dampness of his forehead, slick with sweat.

"You were gone a long while."

"Seven miles, Cas," Dean said exasperatedly. He moved the box to his hip and frowned. "You gonna wing over here or not?"

"Close your eyes."

"Cas." Dean huffed in frustration. "I can handle it okay? Just get your feathery ass over here. It's hotter'n hell and I'd really like to jump in a cold—" His eyes widened when Cas' wings expanded and he was across the bayou in seconds, dropping mere inches from where Dean stood, moving the thickened air in a quick, heavy draft. He expelled the breath he'd inhaled. "Bath," he finished weakly.

"I prefer to shower. You would enjoy my bathing room, I suspect." Cas' eyes roved over Dean's face, frowning at his sunburned cheeks, holding a lengthy pause on his mouth, before darting away.

In spite of the heat, Dean suppressed a shiver. He started when Cas moved.

"Are you all right?" Cas asked, quirking an eyebrow, hands hovering at Dean's waist.

Dean frowned. For a second there, Cas had looked at his mouth like… He tamped down the strange tickling response on his skin to the other man's proximity."I'm fine. Want to get this show on the road?"

"I," Cas hesitated, studying the box. "I think it would be best if I held you from behind this time."

Dean's stomach dipped at the words, or maybe the hushed tone, too intimate for their open surroundings, and he felt his face flush. He was suddenly thankful for the sun that had surely bloomed a disguising burn over his cheeks. "Sure, whatever," he replied gruffly, shifting slightly on his heel.

Cas carefully finished the rearrangement of their bodies, hands falling lightly above Dean's hips. Dean could feel each slim finger through the thin fabric of his t-shirt and the muscles of his abdomen clenched in a sluggish drag, every cell, every hair, surging to life, poised. Cas' breath fell against the back of his head, each puff blowing coolly through the sweaty hair at his nape. Strong hands tightened, grip firm, before relaxing, fingers spreading wide as they slid achingly slow across Dean's stomach, until two forearms overlapped around his ribcage.

Dean's lungs burned and he realized he was holding his breath.

He blinked, heart tripping when he felt the cool nudge of a nose behind his ear, and then he was weightless, and he slammed his eyes shut as the ground fell away.

"Thanks," he said when he felt solid earth beneath his feet again, hating that his voice was breathless.

"You're welcome." Cas released him and stepped back. Then back again.

Dean pointedly ignored the lingering _itch_ along the path where Cas' arms had rested. _Fuck. _ "Ahh," he reached into the box and retrieved a white paper sack, anxious to dispel the strange tension. "I brought dinner?"

Cas frowned. "I don't understand."

"Take out? Diner food? Cas, come on. I brought _dinner."_

At Cas' blank look, Dean rolled his eyes and started across the lawn. "Fine. Stay out here and play in the dirt. I'm gonna eat pie."

He peeked behind him to find Cas still standing at the edge of the bayou, but he thought he detected a note of conflict in his somber face. "It's apple," he added nonchalantly, shaking the bag for good measure.

A rush of wind ruffled his hair and when he looked up, Castiel was waiting on the porch.

"Show off," he muttered.

…

The soft light from the oil lamps danced across the blue-black sheen of feathers, drawing Dean's gaze, despite how he instinctively understood Cas hated to be exposed. He couldn't help it. The night was dark, and the house was still, except for a soft pattering of rain at the windows, and it insulated the two men in the parlor from the rest of the world.

"Stop staring," Cas growled, but the words were less ferocious than Dean had come to expect. Or maybe he was getting better at reading between the gruff exterior lines of his prickly host.

The pie had been a revelation, and, unfortunately for Dean's libido, a source of new and unexpected frustration.

Cas' blissed out expression at the first taste of fruit and cinnamon on his tongue had rendered Dean speechless. He couldn't even finish his_ own_ pie after that, mouth dry and wanting, and he was extremely grateful for the table that hid his body's instantaneous response. Each pinprick of awareness his body had sustained while standing on the roadside suddenly returned with a vengeance, nosediving into his pants. He pressed the flat of his palm against his lap and bite hard into his cheek as he watched Cas devour first his own slice, and then the rest of Dean's, those deep blue eyes heavy lidded and mouthwateringly sultry in the fading light of the kitchen. Dean had swallowed back a groan when a pink tongue darted out to snatch up the last bits of sugar that clung to the bottom of Cas' lower lip.

It was porn. Pure and simple.

Dean wondered if he was suffering from sunstroke as he moved the book he was absolutely not reading into a position that allowed him to continue staring undetected. Glossy dark wings draped over the deep-hued velvet of the wingchair opposite him, falling to the floor in a shimmering carpet of feathers. He shifted on the settee self-consciously, body thrumming anxiously.

He was so screwed.

Cas sucked in a breath and one wing twitched hard, forced out at an awkward angle, rigid.

Dean sat up. "What's the matter? Are you hurt?"

"No," Cas ground out between his teeth. "Cramp." His shoulders were slumped forward, dark head bowed, and the offending wing trembled. "It happens sometimes."

"C'mere." The words were out of his mouth before he knew he was going to say them, but Dean couldn't drag them back.

"What?" Cas' head jerked up, his eyes wide.

"Come here," Dean enunciated carefully, throwing all caution and a healthy dose of common sense by the wayside, scooting back on the settee until there was plenty of room. Stupid tiny couch anyway. Where was a giant wraparound sectional when you needed one? His pulse kicked up a notch and he tossed the unread book to the floor.

Cas studied him in the flickering light until Dean squirmed.

"Fine, stay over there all bitchy and cramped up, it's no skin off my—" Dean stopped when Cas stood and dropped unceremoniously onto the settee in front of him. His lithe hip brushed Dean's bent knee and Dean closed his eyes and counted to three. When he opened them, Cas had dropped his head on the back of the little couch, the cramped wing pushed close to Dean's hands.

"Please," Cas muttered into the skin of his forearm.

Dean exhaled, awash in the warm scent that was uniquely _Cas,_ quite literally surrounded by the very thing he had been dying to get his hands on since the first moment he had laid eyes on Castiel. His fingers trembled when he ran them lightly over the feathers.

They were smooth, sleek. Like silk, but different, because they were alive, moving under his fingertips, clearly reaching for his touch.

Dean shook his head to clear it. Cas was in pain and Dean was selfishly indulging in own dark little fantasy of feathers and foreplay. He narrowed his gaze on Cas' strong back and the offending wing, finding what appeared to be a hard knot of muscle under the joint where his scapula should be. He pressed into it with two fingers and Cas hissed.

Dean jerked his hand back. "Sorry," he said swiftly, voice husky.

"No," Cas grunted. "Don't stop."

Dean ignored his body's swift reaction to the gravelly command and pressed the heel of his hand against the knot, rotating it in deep circles, urging the mangled muscles to release. Cas moaned, softly, teeth fastened on the smooth skin of his forearm, and Dean steeled himself against the sound, silently sending a plea for common sense to his dick. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he swiped at it with the back of his free hand. _Damn._ The knot was stubborn so Dean came at it from different angles, both hands, the fingers of one massaging the hardness while the other slid around to the front of the wing to rub against the opposing joint.

It was if an electric current jolted through both of them when Dean burrowed his hand into the feathers and Cas' head jerked up with a gasp. Dean tried to withdraw and Cas caught his hand, forcing it back into place, panting. "That's, I've," he was biting his lip and Dean unconsciously shifted closer, Cas' hips now achingly close to his lap. _Dick be damned._

"Shh, relax," he murmured.

Cas' head tipped forward with a sigh of relief when the knot eased under Dean's ministrations and the wing finally fell, relaxed.

Dean continued to massage the surrounding muscles and cartilage, quelling an absurd urge to place his lips there, wondering how the fine, soft feathers would feel against the skin of his mouth. Then he raced to douse the fire that spurred to life deep within his belly, fought to maintain some semblance of control, prayed Cas wouldn't sense his turmoil or his crazy turns of thought. He began to comb through the feathers lightly, paying close attention to any joints, the strange array of muscle that attached the appendages to Cas' back, smiling when a particular swipe of thumb or press of palm elicited a breathy moan.

He could touch Cas all night if he would keep making those sounds.

He moved to the opposite side long after the cramp was gone, one wing draped lazily over his leg and down across the floor. His mind wandered as he stroked and petted and he was surprised to realize that in all likelihood no one had touched Castiel in 200 years, which might explain his (very intoxicating) responsiveness.

It probably had nothing to do with Dean.

Cas tensed when Dean absently scratched his fingers down the center of his back, then groaned loud and long.

"You should probably tone it down or the padre is going to get the wrong idea," Dean teased softly, scratching the same long line again, chuckling when Cas shuddered, unconsciously following Dean's hand when it moved away.

"I've had that itch for 200 years."

Dean froze. "Did you just crack a joke?" He peered over Cas' shoulder with a grin.

"Maybe." Cas' jaw remained stoically firm and Dean fought a sudden desire to run his teeth along it, taste the dark stubble on his tongue. The _want_ was so strong, so palpable, he tensed, waiting for Cas to sense the direction of his thoughts and fling Dean aside in disgust.

When Cas remained slumped across the back of the settee, half splayed across his lap, blissful and unaware, Dean breathed easy again and allowed his fingers more freedom in their exploration, digging deep under the silky firm top feathers and combing into the soft, dark down beneath. When a single feather fell into his lap he sucked in a breath.

"Sorry," he said quickly.

Cas snorted, the sound muffled through the pillow of his arm. "That happens frequently. Keep it."

Dean felt the tips of his ears redden as a blush raced up his neck. So his fascination hadn't gone unnoticed. He carefully laid the feather on the floor beside the settee and returned his hands into the depths of the wings again. Cas sighed contentedly, body visibly loose and pliant. His hip was wedged firmly against Dean's knee, and Dean mused how easy it would be to slide him into the cradle of his legs, pull him tight against his chest, explore other parts of the mysterious creature that was half man, half—

Dean mentally regrouped. _Fuckfuckfuck._

He gently extracted his hands, ensuring the smooth directional flow of the feathers as he went. "They're very soft, and," he searched in vain for the right word, one that wouldn't sound too infatuated. "Shiny," he finished lamely.

Cas glanced over his shoulder with a sleepy, even look. "You're very handsome too."

Dean flushed. "I, I wasn't trying to—" His mouth snapped shut and he tried again. "I wasn't coming on to you, Cas. I was saying I like your wings."

Cas' mouth twitched in amusement and Dean huffed, climbing out from behind him on the couch, suddenly needing to be far, far removed from spicy scents and warm, smooth skin and silky feathers.

"Dean."

Dean was already half way to the door, embarrassed and hot and achingly hard. But he stopped. Because Cas almost never said his name. "What."

He willed his heart to stop pounding, wondered if Cas could hear it.

"Thank you."

Dean blew out a long, unsteady breath. "You're welcome. Good night."

He didn't wait for Cas to respond and took the stairs two at a time.

…


	7. Chapter 6

Gabriel stood in the doorway of the parlor, the night and storm muting the usual colors and sounds, buffering the old house in the damp smells of the waterway that lingered outside her doors. He watched Castiel stare out at the rain, a lamp still burning on the end table, though he knew Castiel had no need of it. The flickering flame threw uneven shadows along the faded damask wallpaper behind the settee.

"He's gone up to bed."

Gabriel wrinkled his nose at being caught lurking in the shadows again. "I wondered, when you did not show up to dine with me."

Castiel turned slightly, his profile strong in the pale gold light of the lamp. "He brought food back with him. I apologize. We should have come for you."

Gabe's eyes narrowed. Was that a smile gracing his stern friend's mouth? "What are you smiling about?"

Castiel huffed and waved his hand in dismissal. "There's pie in the refrigerator. Though I fear if you eat it, Dean will have terse words for you in the morning."

"Pie?" Gabe leaned against the doorframe, relieved. He had avoided the house on purpose, hoping that given enough time alone, Dean and Castiel might forge a willing and amicable truce.

The intensity of Cas' gaze as it followed their handsome guest around the grounds had not escaped his notice.

"Apple," Cas said with a wide grin, turning fully into the room.

Gabe blinked at the transformation in Castiel's face. He was suddenly, heartbreakingly, youthful. He schooled his own expression carefully, into one of teasing joviality. "I confess I'm quite jealous. Apple pie is my weakness."

"I remember," Cas chuckled softly, staring down at the settee, seemingly lost in thought.

Gabe opened his mouth to retort when a crash from overhead shook the quiet darkness, followed immediately by a gut-wrenching wail.

Castiel shoved him aside and was at the top of the dark landing before Gabe reached the foyer.

"Stay there," he ordered, disappearing in the direction of Dean's room.

Dean thrashed on the bed, legs tangled in his sheets, as he fought an invisible enemy, his throat emitting gutteral moans. Castiel leaned over him with one knee on the bed, a gentle hand on his shoulder, intent on waking him.

Dean's left hook landed squarely on his jaw, knocking Cas' head back with the force of the impact. Cas grunted and tightened his grip on Dean's arm, dodging the next swing efficiently and throwing his body weight over the struggling man, pinning his wayward fists between their chests.

"Dean."

Dean blinked rapidly in the dark, jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding audibly in the sudden stillness. "Cas," he finally breathed. His eyes fluttered closed and he tilted his head back on the pillow, shuddering as he released the tight tension in his body.

Castiel swallowed. He was hyperaware of the proximity of his mouth to Dean's throat, and the lingering tremors of the body under his hands. He licked his lips nervously, torn between fleeing and staying to ensure the danger was over. "Dean," he said again, softer. "Are you all right?"

He moved to retreat after a lengthy beat of silence, but one of Dean's hands slid free to clasp his waist.

"Wait."

Cas froze, skin buzzing under the warm fingertips pressed into his side, the clean, distinct smell of _Dean_ filling his nostrils. He felt again the swift and insistent need to _move._

He slid out of Dean's grasp, putting crucial inches between them, poised on the edge of the mattress. He fought against an instinctual need for escape, stilling as Dean watched him from under heavy lids.

"Did I wake you up?" Dean asked, voice smoky and deep. He rubbed his eyes. "Sorry."

Cas shook his head once. "I was up."

Dean studied him in the dark, blinking slowly, the dream fading. It was an old one; fire and smoke, the ground rushing toward him, a sudden blackness buffering the screams of his friends as they burned. He ran an unsteady hand over the feathers draped across his lap, the textures soothing. Cas noticeably leaned into the touch and he swallowed a smile. Who was comforting whom?

"You okay?" he asked softly. Cas tilted his head in confusion, and Dean watched in fascination as his eyebrows narrowed into a stern eleven.

"You were dreaming," Cas said, voice flat and succinct.

Dean chuckled, tugging on a feather, hoping Cas would take the hint and come a little closer. "I was. I'm awake now." He sucked in a breath when Cas surprised him and reached up to trace the scar running across his temple.

"Was it about this?"

Dean exhaled slowly and pulled Cas' hand to his chest, holding it there, the fingers lightly clasped in his own. "Yeah."

Cas tugged his hand free and touched the scar again, eliciting a husky chuckle from Dean.

"Stubborn," he whispered.

Cas ignored him, fingertips learning the slick feel of the healed tissue, the jagged edges clearly delineated from the surrounding skin, so frighteningly close to a beautiful eye. He followed its path to Dean's ear, lightly grazing the shell, the soft skin of the lobe, before he spoke. "I am sorry you no longer hear."

Dean found himself exhaling again, breath stuttering on its escape through his nose and parted lips. "How did you know?"

Cas shrugged, the movement so small Dean might have missed it were the moon not casting the room in its faint glow. "I knew."

Dean felt a prickle of heat, seated deep behind his sternum, flushing outward until it reached his skin, enveloping him in a hazy blanket of warmth and desire. "I don't want to talk about it," he began hesitantly, returning his fingers to Cas' wing when he sensed the other man tense. "I was a soldier, once," he faltered and fell silent.

Cas watched the silver tags and chain nestled in the center of Dean's chest rise and fall with each sleepy inhalation. They glinted in the moonlight against skin he already knew the texture of, a smooth softness that was achingly familiar yet strange and new, and beckoned to him in a wave of yearning so pure it left him lightheaded. He heard the anxiety and regret behind Dean's quiet words and spread his wing until it covered the other man's lower body, inviting more touch.

Dean gave him a crooked grin. "You're just pacifying me now."

Cas shrugged again. "You like them. No one has," he looked away for a moment, into the shadows, the intensity of shared confessions unexpected and unfamiliar, raw. "No one has ever… liked them before. If they give you comfort, they're yours."

Dean wet his lips, flustered and unsure of the meaning behind the loaded admission, the offer, _if it was an offer,_ frustratingly decided _fuck it_, and began to stroke the feathers again, boldly including the strength and tautness of Cas' tanned shoulder, the clenching muscles in his side, as he continued his trek through the dark sheen.

He didn't miss the fine tremble in the wake of his touch and wished like hell Cas would lean over him again. The memory of Cas' full mouth so near his own made his blood pump hotter, quicker.

"You should sleep," Cas murmured, withdrawing at last.

Dean caught his hand as he stood and the moment expanded, suspended in yet another layer of unexpected intimacy.

Dean squeezed his fingers. "You know," he said, fighting to keep his tone light, unwilling to break the strange spell that had woven around them, trapping them together in the dark glow of midnight. "At home, my crazy cat crawls into bed with me when I have a nightmare. She has, like, some sort of sixth sense. Any other time she spits and claws and avoids me like the plague."

Cas' eyes were unreadable as he gazed down at him. "Do you need me to stay?" he asked finally.

Dean's brow knitted together in a frown and he started to shake his head. He didn't _need_ anyone.

"Move over," Cas said firmly, manhandling Dean to the opposite side of the bed before he could protest.

"Hey," Dean objected, chuckling when a pillow hit him in the face. "Okay, you've had your fun. _Ow—_"

A wing slapped against his head before the bed dipped and a body, _Cas' body, _settled beside him.

When he tucked the errant pillow under his head and turned on his side, he found Cas' too-handsome face enticingly close, dark lashes fanning across a pale cheek when he blinked drowsily. Dean wondered fleetingly if they felt as silky as the feathers that lined the nape of his neck.

"This bed is too small," Cas grumbled into the pale linens, shifting minutely closer, stretching one arm down at his side, then over his head, before grunting and throwing it across Dean's waist. He popped one eye open and Dean flushed, startled at being caught staring. "Sleep, Dean."

"Yeah, okay," Dean murmured, feeling warm and safe and wanted, burying his hands in feathers, a pleasant hum from the palm lying low across his hip anchoring him in the present, chasing away the remnants of the dream. His eyes fluttered closed and he slept.

…

Gabriel waited at the base of the stairs until he no longer heard the murmur of voices above. When Cas didn't return, he smiled slowly and raised his gaze to the ornate chandelier overhead. He winked at the elaborate loops of gold and crystal. Things were most decidedly looking up.

The crystal twinkled in the moonlight, winking back.

…

Dean stretched lazily, early morning sun streaming across the head of the bed, painting his face in warm, gold light, preventing any hope he had of returning to slumber. His eyes popped open as he remembered the dream and he quickly turned his head; he was alone.

He sighed, scrubbing his face, trying desperately not to analyze the tightness in his belly. _Relief or frustration?_ He sat up, studying the otherwise empty bed. If he didn't know better, he would never guess a strange, winged man had slept nestled into his side.

His gut tightened further and his groin answered with a hot spurt of undeniable desire. "Yeah, okay, not relief," he muttered, throwing off the sheet, glancing backward as he left the bed, a millisecond after swearing to himself he wouldn't look.

Not even a single damn feather.

...

Dean knew he probably should have retraced his steps when he heard the telltale patter of water falling on tile, clear indication the shower he'd heard so much about was otherwise occupied.

He _should_ have.

But he didn't.

He stood in what he now knew to be Castiel's bedroom, squirming with a deluge of too graphic images and impure thoughts, bolstered by the faint memory of warm skin and slick feathers, and possibly a knee wedged firmly between his thighs.

"_Mother of Christ_," he swore, trying in vain not to stare at the massive bed under the windows. Bigger than a king and stretching for metaphorical miles across the room, he had a sudden, clear understanding of why Cas had complained about the size of Dean's bed.

A body, or two, could stretch out, roll around, get…_ambitious, _on a bed this size.

Dean swallowed and he apologized silently to his dick, which was feeling neglected and long-suffering, having been subjected to a botched attempt at relief the previous night before Dean had fallen sleep mid-process, pre-nightmare.

Dean came to his senses, hit with the undeniably stark clarity that Cas was, right this moment, standing under streams of falling water in his massive shower, which probably rivaled his massive bed in scope, _naked_, wet, dark wings probably trailing behind him in a shining path of droplets and suds and _nopenopenope,_ Dean most definitely could not deal. He turned to flee, brought up short by the bath door opening, revealing an equally startled (and magnificently naked) Castiel.

"Fuck," Dean breathed. He slammed his eyes closed, then covered them with a palm, for good measure. "Sorry! Sorry, I'll just—"

"Do you wish to use the shower?" Cas asked calmly.

Dean heard the rustle of footsteps and felt the air move gently beside him. Or maybe that was that goddamn proximity beacon he had developed that pinged loudly whenever Cas was in the same room. The fucker was _standing right beside him. Naked._

"Nope, I'm good," Dean said.

"I've covered myself with a towel, Dean." Cas' voice was amused. "You can lower your hand."

_I'm not sure that's any better,_ Dean thought resentfully, his fucked up, supercharged imagination firing images of _nearly_ naked Cas wrapped in a tiny white towel, dark trail of hair down the center of his belly disappearing into—

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean squeaked.

"The water is nicely warm."

And goddammit, Dean realized then that Cas fucking _knew_ what he was doing, with that gravelly tone and freshly shampooed smell and blazing heat coming off his damp skin in waves so strong it knocked all of Dean's senses for a loop. He lowered his hand, steeling himself for his first (_second_) glance. "Maybe I do want to take a shower," he said, childishly proud of his steady tone.

That fucking towel was tiny.

Cas' lower lip was twisted between neat, white teeth, hiding a smile, and it pissed Dean off. "You have another towel, or should we share?" he asked boldly. _Two can play that game, asshole. _When Cas' hand immediately tugged on the white knot at his waist, Dean panicked and grabbed his wrist. "Wait! I was kidding," he said in a rush.

Cas chuckled and the deep rumble made Dean's stomach topple over in a lazy somersault. "There are towels outside the shower door, on a shelf." Cas turned away and began to rummage through a chest of drawers.

Dean shook his hand, fingers tingling from their too-brief brush with smooth dampness and wiry hair. He cleared his throat. "I don't suppose you have a pair of jeans in that drawer, do you?" When Cas threw him a questioning look, he grinned unsteadily. "Gabe is doing my laundry."

When Cas' hand hovered over a pair of dark linen pants, Dean grunted. "And none of those funny pants you wear, either."

Cas straightened, slamming the drawer with a thud. "Gabriel, whose father was a well-respected tailor, constructed my clothing," he said stiffly.

"Yeah, okay," Dean said soothingly, grinning at the wriggly movements of Cas' pissed off feathers. For a man damned for centuries, a horror-novel villain in the flesh, he was pretty cute when he was mad. "They look really nice on you," he offered.

Cas snorted.

"But I prefer all-American blue denim, if you got any."

A few moments later, Cas handed him a pair of creased, never-worn jeans and an equally stiff t-shirt with a county fair logo blazoned across the front.

"Gabriel is swayed by the shops in town," he offered at Dean's puzzled frown.

"Ah. No underwear?" Dean teased. "Guess I'm going commando, then."

This was met with a blank expression.

Dean coughed self-consciously, his own obvious state of undress, _their_ obvious state of undress _together,_ burning the tips of his ears, heat flooding his cheeks. "Nevermind." He turned and made his escape in a few quick strides. He was pretty sure he could hear Cas chuckling as he firmly closed the bathroom door.

_Feathery asshole, _he thought, leaning on the paneled hardwood and breathing deep.

Dean didn't know what he had envisioned when Gabe had first mentioned Cas' giant shower, but it wasn't the glass-encased room within a room he found inside the bath. It was, for lack of a better word, magnificent.

He circled the three glass walls slowly, blowing out an appreciative whistle. Tiled floor to ceiling in pale, iridescent blue, in a twelve by ten foot space, the expanded shower featured multiple showerheads, bench seating and incorporated windows original to the house.

"This must have taken them years to finish," he murmured, shedding his boxers and clicking open the fogged glass door. Inside, it was even prettier, tranquil. The steam had dissipated from Cas' shower, but a hot dampness remained, along with an elusive whiff of fragrant masculinity, the same as which had been haunting Dean for days.

He adjusted the water and turned on the crisscrossing heads, sighing in relief as the hot stream deluged him from all sides.

He tried not to think of the previous inhabitant.

Standing in the same spot.

Naked.

Wet.

_Goddammit._

Eight minutes later his legs were trembling and his skin was flushed, but the pleasant aftereffect of lingering orgasm was a nice buffer for the water that sluiced over his body. His blessedly clear and relaxed brain skittered over musings of whether Cas had entertained thoughts of _Dean_ this morning too.

He raked his palm across his mouth and chased that heady notion right down the drain, blinking the water from his lashes.

He opened the various bottles and sniffed, searching for _the one_ without success. He grinned at the wide assortment; it would seem Cas may have a bath product fetish, and that was the kind of information Dean was happy to squirrel away for future ammunition. He tried in vain not to imagine how each individual gel or lotion would smell mixed with Cas' own unique scent, succeeding in driving himself mildly crazy and pitifully aroused again before he settled on a generic shampoo and body wash. He finished his morning routine efficiently, if not in any particular hurry. The rumble of his stomach urged him from the glass room more than the pull of the house's other occupant.

Or so he told himself.

Downstairs, he frowned to find he was alone in the house, a covered dish of bacon and scrambled eggs accompanied by a hot carafe of coffee and a single place setting at the kitchen table. He ate, fidgety and uneasy in the silence, wishing there were a radio or television or _something_ to distract him from the vast nothingness of the massive house. There were times the mansion was almost comfortingly alive with the warmth of remembered family and friendship; but then there were times like this, when it seemed empty and dead, a tomb that beat an oppressive desire for Dean to leave.

He shivered and admonished his overactive imagination. "You're on a roll, today," he muttered.

After he rinsed his plate and cup, he ventured out back with his box of hardware store purchases, waving at Gabriel in the chicken coop across the yard. He crouched beside the Impala and sorted the items by type and use. When he found the green and yellow container of rose food at the bottom of the box, he stared at the garden thoughtfully, before ambling back into the kitchen in search of a pitcher.

…

Cas flew low, just clearing the uppermost branches of cypress bordering the property line of Godwyne, ignoring the itch between his shoulder blades that told him _too far, go back!_ He needed distance and speed today.

He had cooked breakfast for Dean before he fled; Dean who had slept curled onto his side, cheek pillowed on a fist, mouth open with soft snores. Dean who had clutched tightly to Cas' waist when another dream had gripped him in the night, then melted into his chest, nuzzling his neck, mouth pressing open and hot along his collar bone in a silent thank you as Cas had rubbed soothing circles on his back.

Dean who this morning clearly had no memory of the second dream or its aftermath.

Cas circled the house, frowning as he recognized the former soldier at the edge of the roses, a pitcher in hand.

…

Dean jumped when Cas dropped out of nowhere beside him as he crouched to pour the blue liquid around the base of the first rose bush. "What the he—"

Cas knocked the pitcher from his hands, upending it, the contents splashing over Dean's head, soaking his shirt.

Dean sputtered, spitting the foul taste from his mouth. "Goddammit, Cas, what's got into you?" He scraped furiously at his eyes.

"What are you doing to my daughter's rose?" Cas growled, eyes dark and fuming.

Dean clambered to his feet, still gagging, anger flaming bright. "Fuck, Cas, I don't know what the hell's in that stuff! Now I'll probably get cancer, according to the state of California." He kicked the pitcher aside and stalked across the yard toward the Impala.

Cas gaped after him, mouth working, fury leaving him in a quiet rush of confused affection. He had understood Dean's words, but not a whit of their meaning. He caught up to him at Gabriel's door, but Dean ignored his quiet, "Dean," before disappearing into Gabe's living room.

He reappeared a moment later unrolling a green hose, the end kinked in one hand, water dripping from the nozzle. He ripped his t-shirt over his head with his free hand and unkinked the hose, gasping when the well water hit his overheated skin.

Cas stared. "Dean," he tried again.

"Shut up, Cas," Dean said around a mouthful of water before he spat in the yard. He bent at the waist and thoroughly wet his hair, scrubbing it with his hands to remove all of the plant food. When he stood, he flung his head back and doused his chest and back again, goosebumps peppering his skin. He could practically _feel _his lips turning blue and he knew his nipples were hard as a rock. And if that _fucker_ was looking…he chanced a glance for confirmation. Cas was most definitely looking.

He turned the hose on him, covering Cas from head to toe in one wide swath of ice-cold spray.

Cas blinked and then grabbed the hose from Dean's hands in a flash.

Dean swallowed his grin, anger gone as quickly as it had flared. "You're all wet."

Cas hit him in the face with the full power of the hose.

"Cas!" Dean sputtered, laughing and ducking, charging the other man at waist level with all his weight. They both toppled backward onto the ground, Cas' deep grunt giving Dean pause as he lay on top of him. "Oh shit, did I hurt your wings?"

Cas flipped them, Dean's breath knocked out in a _whoosh,_ when he landed flat on his back. "They're fine," Cas smirked, flapping them overhead and spraying water in a wide pattern over the grass.

"Show off," Dean complained, wiggling. Cas had him firmly pinned beneath him and he still held the water hose, absently letting the flow hit Dean square in the chest.

"That's cold, asshole," Dean pointed out, trying to free an arm to prepare for defensive maneuvers.

Cas' eyes followed the water's clear trail, shifting it slightly to angle it over the visible area of Dean's eager anatomy Dean would rather he not notice right now. _Damned sensitive nipples._

Dean squirmed again, embarrassingly interested in the spark of fascination he could read in Cas' eyes, acutely aware that if Cas moved his thigh even three inches to the left, there would be yet another revelation in the arousal attributes of one Dean Winchester. "You wanna let me up now?"

Cas refocused on his mouth and for one breathtaking moment, Dean thought, _This is it._ His tongue darted out, wetting his lips in unconscious invitation. "Cas," he murmured.

"What are you two doing?" Gabriel asked, his silhouette blocking the sun as his shadow fell over them. "You're going to run the well dry." He pulled the hose from Cas' hand and kinked it before disappearing into the little house.

Dean lay frozen and still, caught in Cas' unblinking stare for a long beat before Cas sat back and rolled gracefully to his feet. He held out a hand and Dean accepted it.

Dean shook off the remaining water, frantically trying to remember what it was he had meant to say before they had ventured into water play territory. His body had apparently missed the whole _sexy playtime's over_ memo, and he resisted the urge to cross his arms over his too pert chest.

Cas' expression was faraway as he turned toward the garden. "I didn't mean to spill the liquid on you," he offered quietly. "What was it?"

Dean flinched when Cas turned that intense blue gaze on him. His lips parted in a wistful smile, and he wondered how many times in his life a single moment represented a fork in a road, and he had taken the wrong path. "Rose food, Cas. I bought it at the hardware store, but I didn't want to get your hopes up. Thought I'd give it a whirl first, before you got home."

Cas tried not to react, but Dean saw something flicker in his eyes before he hid it. Heat, possession, and something else, something that unfurled inside Dean's belly, a long tendril of electricity that seemed to snap to life between them whenever they were together.

"Thank you," Cas said roughly, his hot glance and deep rumble warming Dean from the inside out.

"I, uh, don't suppose you want to try again?" Dean grinned.

Cas cocked his head. "Try what, exactly," he asked slowly, and that tendril in Dean's gut exploded into a thousand volts of lightening dancing between their bodies.

"The food," Dean said, breath too fast, heart racing. "The roses." He took a well-intentioned step back and then another, and then started across the lawn to fetch the discarded pitcher. "You should go find some dry clothes," he called over his shoulder.

He blinked when he looked up to find Cas standing at the rose bush, holding the pitcher on the crook of one finger.

"You are a coward, Dean Winchester," Cas said, before shooting into the sky, this time the path obscured by the sun when Dean tried to follow him with his eyes.

…


	8. Chapter 7

Castiel was watching him.

Every instinct in Dean's body was honed to this fundamental truth, a restless anticipation measurable with each glance down his back, his hips, his arms. The tingling tightness of his scalp alerted him to eyes on his neck, his face.

He pursed his lips and yanked a corroded plug free, dropping it at his feet where it bounced under the tire, nestled away in pale celadon weeds.

He was hot, hungry, tired, and covered in a satisfying smear of grease and sweat.

And he _wanted._

…

"You could propose your help, instead of skulking in the window," Gabe offered drily.

Castiel stiffened. "I am not _skulking. _I'm merely observing in case our friend George makes a reappearance."

"Why do you insist on naming those vile creatures?" Gabe asked. He moaned in obscene approval as he scooped up the last bite of pie on his fork. "This pie is amazing."

"Dean is going to be very disappointed in you," Cas murmured, shifting to the left when Dean moved from of his immediate line of sight.

"I'm counting on you to distract him," Gabe replied cheerfully, fork clattering on the saucer when he set both on an empty tread.

Cas blinked down at him in confusion. "Excuse me?"

Gabe rolled his eyes. "Use your handsome face for something other than a scowl?" he suggested. "Flutter those damnable wings? He's clearly enamored of them."

"I haven't the slightest idea as to what you're referring," Cas sniffed, fighting a telltale blush. "Or what games you seem intent on playing," he added pointedly.

"Yes, you do," Gabe crowed. "You like him, admit it."

"I will not." But Cas was smiling now, Gabriel's jubilant disposition contagious. He took the stairs slowly. "What's got into you anyway?"

"Oh nothing," Gabe said airily. "Just feeling optimistic for the first time in a about a century."

"Funny."

"You should cook him dinner."

"What?" Cas' eyebrows shot into his hairline. "I can't cook."

"You handled breakfast all right by yourself."

"Scrambling an egg is not exactly culinary savoir faire," Cas said with a wry smile.

Gabe rubbed his palms together. "No, no, it's perfect. I'll help you with dinner, and the two of you can have a nice, quiet evening." He wiggled his eyebrows. "I'll make myself scarce."

Cas' gaze was calculating. "Are you matchmaking, Father Gabriel?" He shook his head. "Even it weren't for the obvious," he fluttered one wing, "origin of species discrepancies, you might have noticed that Dean is male."

"Cas," Gabe soothed, reaching for his friend's biceps and giving them a hard squeeze. "Get thee with the twenty-first century."

Cas barked a laugh. "Your television box has warped you, my good man. Need I remind you of the little towns called—"

"Don't you dare quote Genesis to me, Castiel," Gabe warned with more than a little bite. He squeezed his arms again. "He likes you, too. Trust me."

Cas stared at a point over his head. "Do you still have the dress clothes you were attempting to alter?" he finally asked, head angled toward door.

Gabe swallowed back a grin, shocked that it had really been that simple. "I do. I'll fetch them now along with a chicken I was preparing to roast." He spun in a lively twirl as he danced across the foyer, pausing when Cas made no move to follow him. "Cas?"

Cas' gaze was still trained on the door, faraway look in his eyes. "Do you think of that night, Father? When Amelia took Clara and left on the boat?"

"Cas," Gabe repeated his name, no more than a sigh, throat tight with emotions that should by all rights have long since faded, dispersing into a murky past.

"I think of her face," Cas continued softly. "Her eyes, so like mine, and I wonder what became of her. If she still called for me in the night when she had nightmares." He pinned Gabe in place with a hard glare, eyes dark, his handsome face drawn and troubled. "If I was the nightmare she saw in her dreams."

"You weren't," Gabe whispered. "I believe that she remembered you as you were, before." He trailed off, because no words would give respite from the fate Castiel had endured. He had lost more than his humanity or his way of life; he had lost the last hold on his heart by the cruelest possible means, wrenched from his hands in the dead of the night.

They were both aware there was no way to know what terrors had lived on in young Clara's nightmares.

She had never been seen again.

…

Dean carefully closed the kitchen door behind him, waiting silent and still before crossing to the sink to wash the grime from his fingernails. He scrubbed the bar of soap into a pale lather, working it into his knuckles and palms, the knob of his wrist, the length of his forearms.

It wasn't as though he was avoiding Castiel, he argued with himself as he rinsed and lathered again.

He was merely being politely quiet, so as not to disturb him. He could be resting.

He watched the last of the soap bubbles whorl down the drain.

"Are you hungry?"

Dean jumped. "Christ."

"Sorry," Cas said. "I thought you heard me."

"I didn't." Dean tossed the smudged and dampened towel over the side of the sink, not looking at the man he could feel hovering just out of his peripheral vision. He felt more than saw him retreat at Dean's unspoken dismissal, fading into the pantry, disappearing into the depths of the house. "Yeah, I'm hungry," he called.

He waited, cursing the unsteadiness of his pulse and the anxious need he had for Cas to come back.

A soft rustle settled the rapid beat of his heart.

"Sandwich?" he asked calmly, standing inside the refrigerator door, exhaling silently through his nose.

"Okay," Cas replied, hesitating by the table. "Dean?"

"Hmm?" Dean set out cold sliced ham and pickles and mustard, and reached for the loaf of bread wrapped tightly in wax paper in a quaint wooden box. He shuffled through a drawer for a knife.

"I," Cas cleared his throat and pulled at a chair, the legs scraping noisily across the floor, infringing on the quiet hush. "I thought I would prepare dinner." He bit his lip when Dean continued to spread mustard on a slice of bread in slow strokes. "Roast chicken." The words tapered off until there was only the sound of the too patient knife.

Dean carefully aligned the crusts of the bread, then sliced the sandwiches in equal diagonal halves. He placed the neat triangles on two pale blue saucers and rinsed the knife under the faucet before turning at last.

"I like chicken." His eyes met Cas', found the blue clouded and uncertain, and the mirrored anxiety served to quell his spate of nerves.

He was still overheated, skin stretched too thin, but he sat across from the man he no longer thought of as a creature, and embraced the fresh thrill of anticipation as he took his first bite. "I like chicken a lot," he winked, emulating a casualness he didn't feel, swan diving into the unknown at the bottom of this cliff.

Cas gingerly picked up one half of a sandwich, mouth suspiciously tilted at one corner. "I thought as much."

They ate ham and mustard on homemade bread and smiled over glasses of iced tea and Dean thought he might need to let the car dry out another day before beginning to work on her in earnest.

…

Cas' hands slipped from Dean's hips reluctantly before he stepped away. "Take care on your walk."

Dean caught himself before his body swayed in the direction of Cas' retreat. He wondered if he would always suffer the nervous dip and shudder of his stomach when Cas lifted him from the ground. At least he had kept his eyes open this time.

Mostly.

He cleared his throat. "Thanks, Cas. I'll be back as soon as I grab some more supplies. I need to be able to call my brother, and I forgot yesterday," he stopped abruptly, self-conscious and rambling. Cas wouldn't grasp the concept of a cell phone, and why was he explaining himself, anyway?

"I understand," Cas said solemnly. "You should quell his fears. There is no cause to worry him needlessly."

Dean chuckled, the nervous tension Cas' proximity inevitably caused bleeding away with the man's odd formality and serious expression. "Cas, no one talks like that. At least, not anymore."

Cas cocked his head, studying Dean until the other man flushed and ducked his head. "What should I say?" he finally asked.

Dean licked his lips. "Nevermind. You're doing just fine. I'll be back."

Cas nodded, taking another step toward the safety of the trees. "Be safe," he said again.

Dean gave a little wave, ending in a delayed jab of his index finger. "And no squash!"

He was rewarded with the ring of Cas' laughter as he took to the sky.

…

It shouldn't have surprised him when a stranger on their streets twice in two days drew attention. Men tipped their heads in greeting when Dean passed and pretty girls smiled, eyes coy and coquettish.

He nodded when prompted, polite in equal measure, his usual M.O. of infectious flirting conspicuously lacking in appeal today. He was glad to leave the sidewalk when he reached the diner, bell jingling cheerfully overhead as he pushed through the door.

"Well, if it isn't our handsome stranger again," the redhead from the day before exclaimed with a smile. "How did we get so lucky?"

"It was the pie," Dean winked, waving at Benny through the kitchen window. "Think you could fix me up a few more slices?"

"Different specials today," Maisy said, nodding toward the cake stands.

One of the glass-covered dishes held the most beautiful pie Dean had ever seen; his mouth watered at the height of the meringue. "Lemon," he asked pleadingly.

Benny snorted, wrists crossed on the sill of the cutout in the wall. "You're a lost cause, soldier."

"I'm a slave to pastry," Dean grinned. "And the fruit?"

"That's blueberry," Maisy offered, already slicing two fat pieces of lemon meringue and wedging them into a cardboard cake box.

Dean sighed happily. "Better make it three of each." Cas had already confessed that Gabe had eaten the slices of pecan resting in the fridge, and while he _should_ skip the fucker for eating Dean's pie, he probably still owed the former priest for saving his life.

"You're not gonna fit behind the steering wheel of that fancy car, if you're not careful," Benny warned, slipping through the next swing of the kitchen door. He slung a towel over his shoulder and leaned on the counter. "You have lunch?"

"I did," Dean nodded, mouth watering as fat, juicy blueberries fell off the side of Maisy's knife. "And shut up," he added, smile wide and relaxed.

"How goes the repairs?" Benny poured two cups of coffee and slid one in front of Dean.

"Slow," Dean grimaced. "This morning I drained everything and pulled all the plugs. I'm countin' on that pie to wash the taste of gas from my mouth."

Benny arched one eyebrow. "You better be careful, nearest ambulance service is a good hour away. You get unleaded in your belly and you're as good as gone."

"Nah, I've been siphoning since I was a delinquent." Dean shrugged lightly. "Not my most prized skill, but it sure as hell came in handy today."

They sipped their coffee companionably while Maisy tied a piece of cream twine around the box.

"Here you go, stranger. I'll let the boss ring you up. I'm takin' my break."

"Break?" Benny asked incredulously, watching the redhead's hips sashay away. He turned back to Dean with a smirk. "I like that. You're the first soul we've seen since lunch. _Break,_"he scoffed into his mug.

Dean chuckled. "The trials of the small business owner, huh?"

"Good help is hard to find," Benny agreed with a grin. "So what do you do in Kansas, Dean?"

The previous day they had uncovered brief tidbits of shared history in between the meatloaf special and the locals who dropped in for coffee and pie. Dean was former Army, Benny had been in the Navy. Although he was mindful of protecting Castiel and Gabe, Dean had seen no reason why he couldn't be truthful about his own background. And Benny's slow-drawling grin was contagious.

"Mechanic, mostly," he offered, blowing on the top layer of dark liquid in his mug.

"You still a delinquent?" Benny winked.

Dean's laugh was quick and unfettered, and he shook his head in amusement. "Nope, totally respectable now. Unfortunately."

Benny looked up when the bell over the door rang out. "You on foot again, brother? I could give you a ride. I've got an errand to run out past that old haunt of yours."

Dean stared, mug halfway to his lips.

Benny lightly pounded a closed fist on the counter, his voice low and soothing to ward off Dean's uneasy expression. "Chip Rodriguez passed you walking on Parish Road 1105 yesterday. Not many options out thataway."

Dean grunted and took a sip. "Small towns."

"You got it," Benny saluted and ambled down the counter to wait on his new customer.

…

Gabe mumbled under his breath as Cas twitched, tense and uneasy. "Hold still," he said around the straight pin between his lips.

"Then hurry up," Cas spat. Although he had the grace to look contrite a few seconds later. "My apologies." He remained motionless as Gabriel pinned the white dress shirt in place for stitching.

Gabe had removed twin portions of the shirt's back, cleverly rehemming the openings to allow space for Cas' wings, before tailoring a dark blue waistcoat with a similar alteration. He adjusted the new fastenings at Cas' waist and tied off the last knot before stepping back in satisfaction.

"All finished," he said with a flourish. He reached up to brush a tuft of dark down from Cas' starched collar. "Fine work, if I might be so arrogant."

Castiel grimaced. "I look ridiculous."

"Actually, you look quite debonair," Gabe offered, eyes twinkling.

"Shouldn't you be discouraging this, Father?"

Cas wouldn't meet his gaze but Gabe understood his meaning and shrugged. "I care little for bigotry and judgmental musings, Castiel," he said quietly, straightening the waistcoat with a sharp tug. He smiled. "You, of all people, should know that."

"This is insanity," Cas grumbled, but from the way he gingerly touched the cuff at his wrist, and smoothed his palm down the buttoned-front of the vest, Gabe knew his friend was secretly pleased.

"Love is a temporary insanity," Gabe quoted softly.

Cas huffed, cheeks flushing warmly. "Don't impose unnecessary sentiment, Gabriel. You always were an incurable romantic." The words were intended to be derisive, but his delivery was lacking, soft. His heart began to thrum underneath the silk vest as he wondered what Dean's reaction might be when he saw him.

"Tis true, tis true," Gabe mock swooned. "There once was a boy from Nantucket—"

"Gabe!" Cas broke in with a choked laugh.

Gabe chuckled and clapped a hand to Cas' shoulder. "Now let's go see about your chicken."

…

Dean watched Benny argue with the young woman on the rundown porch, an unkempt toddler clinging to the faded housedress that fluttered around her bare calves. Even through the windshield, he could see a fresh bruise blossoming along the side of her face. She was shaking her head violently, arms crossed in front of her body in a lonely embrace, when Benny's hands cupped her jaw.

Dean looked away from the intimate moment, studying the waving grasses of the unplowed fields surrounding the old house. He glanced up in surprised when the driver's door opened and Benny slid behind the wheel.

"Stubborn woman," Benny muttered slamming the truck into gear. His jaw was unyielding, cheeks ruddy with emotion.

"Friend in trouble?" Dean asked casually, although he recognized when anger's origin came from a deeper place.

"You could say that." Benny turned right, the few miles to Godwyne now noticeably brief.

As they passed, Dean watched the woman bury her face in her hands before she bent and picked up the baby and went back into the sad little house. "I've got time," he said, setting the pie on the seat beside him. "You keep that cooler back there stocked?" He jerked his head toward the bed of the pickup.

Benny chuckled softly. "Always. You feel up to some giggin'? I hear the crawfish are thick after the storm."

"I can honestly say I have no earthly idea what you're talking about, but if it involves craw_dads_, I'm all in."

"Crawdads? Pshaw," Benny scoffed, slowing and turning the truck around in the middle of the dirt road. "Brother, hang onto your shorts. I'm going to do something about your alarming lack of Cajun education."

…

Dean clasped Benny's hand through the driver's window, the night so deep and black it swallowed up the truck's headlights, insulating them on the barren country road. "You stay away from farmhouses and angry husbands and go straight home, you hear?"

Benny laughed softly. "Yeah, I hear. You sure you don't want some of our catch?"

"Nah, you keep 'em. Make somethin' fancy for tomorrow's special," Dean winked. He hesitated, the story of the woman on the porch fresh and painful and making him uneasily homesick. "You gonna be all right?"

"You don't always get to choose, Dean," Benny said with a sad smile, crickets and cicadas filling the air with night song. "Sometimes your heart chooses for you."

Dean nodded. He thought he might be beginning to understand that.

"How the hell you gettin' across that again?" Benny asked incredulously, deftly changing the subject as he peered at the muddy trail disappearing into the bayou.

Dean waved off his concern, saying a prayer that Cas was safely tucked away, deep within the mansion. "There's a couple of logs, just down the water there." He pointed in a vague southerly direction. "I'll get across." He stepped back from the open window. "Thanks for the lift."

Benny's eyes were trained on the shadowy shapes of the cypress, his expression thoughtful. "I always did want to get a look inside this old place." He glanced at Dean with a grin. "Is it really haunted?"

Dean laughed easily, hoping the nervous tic along his left cheekbone was invisible in the dim night. "Not that I can tell. I'll keep you posted." He slapped the door. "You drive careful."

Benny nodded, still tracing the outline of the house through the trees. "Yeah." He eased the gearshift into reverse. "You don't eat all that pie at once, Winchester. Remember what I said: ain't no ambulance comin' to get you if you overindulge yourself into a coma."

"Har har," Dean grinned. He waved, exhaling in relief when the truck finally began to move, waiting in the road until it was gone, twin pricks of glowing red in the distance, before he started down the sloping grasses of the ditch toward the bayou.

He stumbled backward with a surprised grunt when a figure loomed large and imposing, appearing suddenly in his path and knocking the cake box from his hands. "Fuck, Cas," he breathed after the initial shock, barely resisting the urge to clutch at his chest. "What the hell, man?"

"What have you done?" Castiel growled, advancing on him again, eyes black with fury, wings poised menacingly over Dean's head.

Dean stumbled again, scrambling for purchase on the dew-slick grass. "What do you mean, what have I done? I—"

His words were cut off when Castiel grabbed him around the waist and shot into the air and over the trees in a heartstopping rush of wind and gravity. Dean's stomach bottomed out and he fell hard on the mossy earth when Cas released him on the other side.

"Cas," he ground out, knuckles scraped raw where they had dragged tree roots and gravel.

Cas didn't afford him the option of explanation, yanking him to his feet by two fistfuls of shirt. He pulled Dean's face close to his own. "Who was he? What did you tell him?"

Dean gripped Cas' wrists, reeling and off-balance, lightheaded, scrambling mentally to catch up. His hip ached from his tumble across the ground, and his pride was starting to burn, engulfed quickly by a hot burst of anger. He focused on the heat, eager for it to overtake the spurt of lust Cas' throaty tones shot through his groin.

"You need to calm the fuck down," Dean said quietly, meeting Cas' snapping eyes with a cool, green gaze.

Just as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, and Dean lurched when his shirt, when _he,_ was released as Cas took off, expression grim.

"Cas!" he yelled, confusion and rage warring at the back of his throat. "Get your feathery ass down here, you coward!" He volleyed Cas' earlier accusation into the night in a cheap parting shot, but the sky remained still and dark, empty of stars or moon or beast.


	9. Chapter 8

The fanlight rattled when Dean kicked the door closed. He took the steps two at a time, propelled equally by biting irritation and an unfamiliar angst, but at a noise from the back of the house he quickly reversed direction. He stalked across the staid marble entry and through the dark pantry, caught up short in the kitchen doorway by the figure at the sink.

Glossy wings hung low, dejected, the black tips brushing the floor. In his hands, Cas held a dented and forlorn cardboard container.

An unexpected surge of affection began to wind around his bones at the sight of that damned pink box, and Dean fought valiantly to cling to his anger, sore ass, and bleeding knuckles.

"I'm sorry," Cas said with quiet composure, setting the box carefully in the deep porcelain basin, effectively slicing the beginning and end from Dean's unspoken tirade with an unhurried grace. "I shouldn't have been so rough."

Dean stared, crippled by the gentleness of Cas' fingers as he worked the knots in the dirty twine.

"Your pie is," Cas tilted his head, studying the contents of the box when he finally pried open the lid. "Flattened?" He lifted the package with both hands and turned toward Dean, presenting a carefully empty expression with the sodden disaster of cardboard and fruit.

Dean liked to think his senses had been honed by his years as a soldier and the loss of his hearing, but nothing in his war-torn life had prepared him for the crushing awareness that seized his core. The disordered jumble of meringue and blueberries was painfully inferior to the starched white collar against a beautifully tanned throat, or the midnight hued waistcoat echoing the blue of Cas' eyes. His heart knocked forcefully against the cage of his chest, and Dean knew with startling clarity that something seismic had shifted within him and he would never be the same.

He scrambled to recover, disquieted and confused by an uncharacteristic desire to express himself verbally. He hadn't missed the way Cas had become similarly immobilized, perhaps by Dean's unresponsiveness, and he tried to salvage the moment, lest Cas turn away and they lose this…_whatever _this had become.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he asked dumbly, instantly disappointed by his predictable failure to connect his mouth to his brainstem, although maybe the words weren't important so long as they kept Cas from running away. But _dammit, _Dean wished desperately those hadn't been his first. He exhaled slowly, pensively turning over new words in his head, rubbing his jaw and wincing at the reminder of his cracked and bloodied hand.

"You're hurt." Cas' face fell, his mouth a grim line of distress, and he laid the box on the counter. "Come here." He turned on the tap, fingertips under the stream assessing the temperature.

Normally Dean might have bristled at the commanding tone, but he was pitifully thankful for any excuse that brought his aching, greedy hands within touching distance of the man waiting at the sink. "It's nothing," he said gruffly, keeping a few sanity preserving inches between them as he shoved his hands under the faucet.

Cas was one long line of elevated temperature bathing his left side, and Dean's heart skipped when a white-clad arm brushed his chest as Cas reached for the bar of homemade soap. Dean pulled back with a frown, ignoring his body's protest at the retreat. "That's going to sting like a bitch."

"Don't be such a baby," Cas murmured, catching Dean's wrists and tugging him close.

Dean's brain stuttered at the first touch and then ceased functioning entirely when it continued.

Long, elegant fingers worked creamy suds into the cuts and abrasions, tenderly cleansing dirt and debris from the shallow wounds, angling Dean's hand into the water at regular intervals to rinse before repeating the process. When Cas seemed satisfied that both hands were clean, he held Dean's battered knuckles lightly in his palm, reaching across the countertop for a towel.

Dean had become grounded during the routine, watching those beautiful hands care for the wounds they had wrought, the alien white cuff becoming damp with water and soap. Cas' handsome face was so temptingly close and Dean allowed himself the unchecked luxury of studying the cut of his jaw and the shape of his mouth. He liked the way Cas' dark lashes blinked slow and unhurried, a thick shadow that masked the bright, clear blue. He smiled when the color turned stormy at a particularly stubborn bit of dirt, as if the stain was a personal affront.

Dean couldn't remember why he had been so angry.

When Cas leaned away for the strip of soft, white cloth, Dean had had enough. Enough of the tight band across his chest and the butterflies heaving acid in his stomach; enough fighting the hunger that boiled in his blood and tied his tongue up in knots. When it seemed as though Cas' palm might slip away entirely, Dean tightened his grasp and tugged, using inertia where words once again failed him, and pressed their lips together in a swift, closed-mouth kiss.

Castiel froze.

Dean flushed hot, humiliated and cursing his recklessness and stupid inability to accurately read people or situations. He squeezed his eyes tight as he pulled away, memorizing the cling of their lips, the skin tacky and soft as they slid apart, because despite his mortification, he never wanted to forget it.

But then Cas was digging his fingers into the back of his scalp and kissing him back, mouth opening hot and wet and desperate, moaning as he scrabbled at the short strands on Dean's crown to anchor him in place, as if there might be somewhere else Dean decided to go.

There was nowhere else Dean wanted to be.

They kissed standing at the sink, perfect, wet suction of lips and tongue and Dean thought he might actually die if Cas stopped making those little noises in the back of his throat. He shifted them, pressing Cas more firmly into the counter and one wing knocked a glass to the floor where it shattered into a million glittering shards. Dean grunted in apology but Cas held him fast; there were mouths learning the taste of one another, and broken, whispered words to swallow and absorb, and the glass could wait, it would keep.

Dean pressed his fingers into the sharp bones of Cas' hips, shamelessly panting when Cas' tongue batted his own into submission, discovering the curves of Dean's cheeks and the sharp points of his teeth with a singular guided devotion. If Dean had given this any thought at all, he might have been inclined to take things slow, but Cas steamrollered past all of his secret midnight musings, chasing the mewling sounds that fell embarrassingly from Dean's lips as though he had nothing better to do with the rest of his life than to force them to the surface and then drink them down again and again.

Brain misfiring, all senses centered on the gratification of his mouth, Dean bucked in surprise when Cas' hands worked their way under the hem of his t-shirt.

"You smell like fish," Cas muttered unexpectedly, and it made Dean laugh, the sound breaking on a gasp when Cas' fingers first raked his shirt up and then blunt nails scraped down Dean's sides.

"You smell like _you,_" Dean groaned in reply, finally finding his voice but abandoning it in favor of breathing deep and burying his nose behind Cas' ear, fighting the urge to grind senselessly against him.

Cas chuckled darkly and slid his hands down to squeeze Dean's hips. "I don't know what that means." He dipped his head, to lick at Dean's pulse point, and Dean moaned, dragging Cas' head back with a handful of hair.

"You're killing me," he ground out between his teeth before he crashed their mouths together again.

Another flutter, and another glass, and Cas was laughing against his throat, the sound deep and sweet and sexy. Dean whined when Cas bit at the tender skin below his jaw, having no idea how he had gone from scrabbling for control to losing it again in the space of a heartbeat. "Cas," he sighed, settling his hips into a rhythm, deciding friction might be the answer to this new and very real fear of spontaneous combustion.

Cas eagerly matched each slow drag of hardness, and Dean knew it was dangerous, this teetering on the edge, but it felt too good to stop and they sucked at the damp air between their mouths, lips rubbing, hips moving in tandem. Cas dragged the hem of Dean's shirt higher until Dean obediently lifted his arms to allow him to pull it over his head. Cas licked his lips, eyes hot and dirty, before dropping an open-mouthed kiss to Dean's bare shoulder.

Dean cupped his face, stilling them both, and Cas froze, eyes blown dark with desire but shuttering swiftly in the face of Dean's rejection. Dean brushed the hair from his forehead and kissed his lips lightly. "I want to look at you," he reassured him, voice low, their mouths brushing with the movement of each word as it left his lips.

Cas shuddered and his eyes fell closed.

Dean kissed each eyelid, then rubbed his open mouth along the bolt of his jaw. "What are you wearing," he asked again, but this time the words suited, the delivery accompanied by the push of his fingers behind the sharp fold of a collar, sliding along the warm skin underneath. He leveraged his hips into Cas', murmuring enocuragement when Cas gasped at the contact, and slid one hand up the dark blue silk of the waistcoat. He feathered a fingertip over the inventive fastening at his ribcage. "This is beautiful," he said in quiet approval.

Cas' lashes fluttered open, eyes at half-mast as he watched Dean touch each button of the waistcoat and unhurriedly trace the placket of the dress shirt. He exhaled a shaky breath when Dean calmly began to release the buttons at his throat. "I," Cas swallowed thickly. "I dressed for dinner."

Dean chuckled softly. "I see that." He smiled, hoping the racing beat of his heart was not too distracting, thankful he was only getting it at half volume. "I approve," he added, dipping to kiss the newly exposed hollow of throat. When he straightened, his eyes were serious. "I'm sorry I was late."

He felt the tremble in Cas' fingers when they brushed down the skin of his stomach to tug on his belt buckle.

"You're forgiven," Cas finally said.

When he pulled the belt from Dean's jeans, one slick snap of leather through denim, it was the hottest fucking sound Dean had ever heard.

"That's good," Dean exhaled unsteadily. "That's really good."

And it was Cas' turn to laugh, before he pushed at Dean's hips, backing him across the kitchen floor. "Do you want to eat now or later?"

Even if Dean had been starving, his answer would still be the same. "Later," he managed before Cas' mouth was on his and he was guiding him through the dark pantry to the stairs.

That they made it to the bedroom at all was a blessed miracle, but the sight of that giant bed still gave Dean a fit of nervous butterflies and he laughed self-consciously when Cas pushed him down on the sheets.

"Why are you laughing," Cas asked, mouth trailing over Dean's chest, pausing to flick his tongue against a nipple, lips turning up in a smile against the too-warm skin when he felt the response.

Dean resisted squirming, barely, tugging at the buttons on the waistcoat. "Because you still make me nervous," he admitted, releasing the strange side fastenings and slipping the dark blue garment from Cas' shoulders. "I almost want to leave this on you." He let it fall gently to the floor.

"Gabriel will be pleased you enjoyed it."

Dean blinked then snorted, clapping a hand over his eyes, cheeks flaming. "Oh Jesus, you did _not_ just imply a priest is, did," he couldn't finish and bit his lip.

He jumped when Cas licked at his mouth, relaxing into the offered kiss and winding his fingers into Cas' hair instead of hiding behind them.

"I did more than imply," Cas said when he sat up, straddling Dean's hips and looking entirely too good while doing it. "Gabe has been playing cupid." He unbuttoned his cuffs, then the remaining buttons on the dress shirt, his fingers slow and methodical until Dean could take no more and brushed them away so he could do it himself.

A lot less steady but a lot more participatory.

"Gabe is a smart man," Dean muttered, nearly upending Cas when he sat up. He wound an arm around his waist to hold him in place and peeled the shirt from his shoulders. "I brought him pie."

He kissed the delicate curve of a collarbone.

"I ruined it," Cas breathed, scratching his fingers down Dean's scalp, smiling at the rumble of pleasure.

"It probably still tastes amazing," Dean whispered against the soft skin behind Cas' ear.

"I'm tempted to test your logic." Cas gasped when Dean experimentally sucked a thin margin of skin between his teeth.

"In a minute," Dean grunted, shifting Cas on his lap and rubbing his lips along the coarse stubble of Cas' jawline.

"This better take longer than a minute," Cas muttered irritably, swiveling his hips and making Dean's eyes cross even while a lighthearted joy bubbled up in his throat.

Dean settled his hands on Cas' waist so he could better direct the motion of his hips and grinned. "I've got all night."

"That's good," Cas said, nodding seriously before shoving Dean to his back again. "That's very good."

Dean thought he was prepared for the feel of skin on skin, but when Cas laid out on top of him, aligning their bodies from shoulder to calf, he had to bite hard into his cheek to hold back a groan. And when those wings draped over their heads, surrounding them in a fragrant tent of feathers, Dean closed his eyes and had to remind himself to breathe.

"Are you all right," Cas teased, voice sultry and tinged with enough self-satisfaction that Dean felt compelled to retaliate.

He dragged all ten fingers down the center of Cas' back without warning.

Cas moaned, bucking into Dean's hands, wings trembling and poised, chasing Dean's fingers as they combed through the feathers again and again. He collapsed onto Dean's chest, mouth dragging over his temple feverish and hot.

"I want you," he whispered against Dean's scars, lips caressing his ear, and Dean shuddered, feeling the words he could not hear.

"I don't have a clue what I'm doing," Dean admitted, hands skimming across Cas' bare shoulders to cup his face

Cas shivered. "You're doing very well." He let Dean draw his mouth down and kissed him long and deep.

When he pulled back, he blinked so slow and sexy that Dean had to kiss him again. "What do you want?"

Cas studied him, gaze roaming over Dean's face and torso long enough that Dean wriggled self-consciously. "What do _you _want, Dean?" He lightly traced the curve of Dean's eyebrow until it met the jagged, pale line of healed skin.

Dean was blushing, he knew, his ears and neck burning with excess heat, not all of it caused by the lips and hands of the man lying on top of him. But he threw caution to the wind and asked for what he wanted, for a change. "Roll over," he said gruffly, pushing lightly at Cas' hips.

Cas' eyebrows rose slightly but he slid off and settled onto his back, Dean following the movement, looming over him.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," Dean exhaled, and it was true. Cas' cheeks were flushed with color too, his eyes so rich the blue was liquid, luminous. His wings spread out beneath them in a carpet of dense blue-black and Dean knew he could (and dear _God_ he hoped he would) spend an entire night buried in them and still not get enough.

But for now, he wanted to get his hands on the more human part of Cas, the part Cas might remember, the part he could more easily associate with what Dean's heart and body wanted him to learn, to know.

Even if Dean wasn't sure he was ready to formulate exactly what that was.

He lowered his head and pressed his lips to the center of Cas' chest. It wasn't his heart, but it was close, and Dean hoped the symbolism was clear. Cas' stomach trembled when Dean's mouth dragged over the muscles, tongue laving a path low and broad, swirling around hips and dipping into his navel. Dean unfastened the button of those damnable funny pants and splayed open the fly so he could kiss there too.

Cas' hand had traveled to the nape of his neck, but it didn't urge or protest, it merely followed, the touch light and strangely soothing. Dean turned his head at one point and pressed his lips to the palm, meeting Cas' eyes before he began to pull his pants from his hips. He rubbed his head into Cas' open hand like a cat, and Cas obliged, cradling the crown of his head when he dipped his mouth to taste him for the first time.

There was a brief clench of fingers in hair and a sharp intake of breath, and then Cas relaxed under Dean's mouth as he opened and took him inside. He hollowed his cheeks around the head, swirling his tongue just at the tip, coaxing a moan from Cas' pretty mouth as his legs fell open, adjusting for the width of Dean's shoulders.

Dean slid his arms under his thighs, the hair tickling his skin as he ran his mouth up and down Cas' hard length, desperate to hear that ragged little sound again, wondering what other sounds he might yet get in reward. He was hard inside his jeans, and he clung to the tight agony, knowing when he came it was going to be a pain-tinged bliss that would tear through him and wring him dry.

His hands rubbed soothing circles around Cas' hipbones as he sucked intimately at the base, a velvety hardness against his lips, developing a new rhythm based on the tenseness of Cas' body and the quickening of his breaths. He moved his mouth from sweet teasing kisses along the head, to sharp nips along his inner thighs, sucking him down when he could feel Cas' frustration spike before pulling away and leaving him brutally on the edge, smiling to himself when Cas finally, _finally_, caved.

"_Dean_," Cas ground out between his teeth, and the decisive command was so hot Dean had to shove a hand between his own legs and squeeze.

"I'm right here, Cas," he said, sucking a drop of shining fluid from the flat planes of Cas' stomach, the taste tart on his tongue. Cas trembled, body taut with incomplete release and he pushed angrily at Dean's remaining clothes.

"Get these off," he growled.

Dean chuckled and quickly lowered his zip, groaning when Cas' hands went straight for his dick and pulled it free, shoving Dean to his back and stripping the jeans efficiently from his legs. Then he was sucking him down in one go and Dean was unprepared, so overcome with the tight throat swallowing around him that he cried out, or at least he thought he did, his one good ear buzzing too loudly for him to be sure.

It was good, so good he was immobilized by the hot suction, all senses narrowed to single point of pleasure directly correlated to the kiss-bruised lips that tugged ruthlessly, self-possessed. Cas seemed insulted that Dean didn't come immediately and set about rectifying that with a deadly accurate swirl of tongue against his slit and a spit slick finger nudging low and behind.

A white-hot stab of jealousy struck Dean unexpectedly, a quick-fire hatred leveled at some long distant and unknown lover, Cas' mouth too practiced, his movements too assured. The whole damned thing nearly came to an embarrassing halt until Dean recognized one quirky dip of Cas' head, a technique Dean knew was his own. His spike of fury diffused into a molten fondness that made the pull of the lips along his length more perfect.

Wanting more than he thought, more than he wanted to examine too closely, Dean tried to force his vocal cords into action when he really needed them for once in his goddamned life. "Cas," he squeaked helplessly. "Cas, _babe_." And the endearment was enough, Cas' exacting focus on Dean's release broken as he lifted his head.

"C'mere," Dean said low, tugging at Cas' bicep when he didn't immediately move. "Let me have this too."

Cas' intense frown softened into a smile and he crawled up Dean's body, plastering himself in place and crushing their mouths together.

Dean ran his hands lightly over the wing joints on his back, settling at his waist and letting Cas kiss him senseless. "You're pretty good at that," he said when Cas finally allowed him to suck in some much-needed oxygen. He traced the swollen skin of Cas' lower lip, slipping his thumb inside and catching his breath when Cas easily sucked the pad onto his tongue. "That was your first time, right?"

His insecurity must have been showing, because Cas' eyes were soft as they nibbled at the pad of his thumb before releasing it with sucking sound. "Outside of an odd fantasy or two, yes."

Dean groaned. "Have you thought about it, Cas? About me?" Dean couldn't resist pushing his thumb back through those bee-stung lips, sighing when Cas gladly sucked it in again.

"Since the first night," Cas said carefully, pulling Dean's hand from his mouth and kissing the palm.

"Cas you can't say things like that," Dean complained, voice husky. Although by Cas' answering smile he _could,_ and Dean was exceedingly glad he _did._ Especially if he did it while sucking the hell out of Dean's fingers or any other part of his anatomy.

"Dean?" Cas rolled his hips restlessly into Dean's, biting his lip when they slid together, caught in a heated channel between their stomachs.

"Yeah, Cas," Dean said, brushing their mouths together. "I'm right here." Dean swallowed Cas' moan when he took them both in his hand and began to stroke. Cas shuddered on top of him, until he began to arch away, overwhelmed. "Stay with me," Dean urged, holding him tight and giving him what his body craved, deft touch and soft whispers of encouragement obliterating any option that included panic or fear.

And when Cas finally tumbled over the edge, Dean was thankful for the fleeting moment they had slowed, freeing doubts and uncertainties into the space between them, because the release was that much sweeter for it. He laughed a breathless warning when Cas grabbed the hand that still nestled them against his belly, but Cas didn't seem to mind the mess and he linked their fingers with a shaky exhale and a kiss.

They lay breathing together, boneless, night air sticky and humid and altogether wonderful in its damp closeness.

…


	10. Chapter 9

An obnoxious stomach gurgle broke the peaceful haziness between slumber and wakefulness and Dean laughed softly, trying to ease out from under the weight of Cas' arm. "Let me up."

"No," Cas mumbled, face mashed into Dean's shoulder. He dragged his mouth in place across the skin, touching his tongue to the salt-sweet taste that lingered there.

Dean huffed, kissing an apology into the nearest body part he could reach, the silky dark top of a mussed head. He pushed, gentle but insistent. "I promise I'll make it worth your while."

"Fine," Cas sighed dramatically, flopping to his back with some effort in a hypnotic rotation of luminous skin and dark feathers.

Dean swallowed, mouth bone dry. Even though he assumed he now had permission to look and touch at will, the entirety of _Cas_ was a visual feast that he had trouble processing. Especially so close at hand and warmly inviting. "I'll be right back," he said gruffly, swinging out of bed before he did something stupid like wax poetic about the dark trail of hair that bisected Cas' taut stomach, or the glistening blue-black layer between his body and the sheets.

He was still muttering under his breath as he padded across the floor when his neck prickled, alerting him that eyes tracked his departure. He glanced back to find Cas was plainly enjoying the view. "Stop that." He jabbed a finger in Cas' direction and slipped through the bathroom door, grinning at the deep chuckle that followed.

He wet a washcloth and took care of himself before snagging a towel and returning to bed. "You're kind of dirty for someone who _looks_ like an angel," he offered, lips pursed as he climbed over Cas' naked hips.

"I'm no angel," Cas said dryly, eyes fluttering closed when Dean began to swipe him gently with the damp cloth. He tried to force Dean back onto the bed, skim humming low and steady, yearning, but Dean slid off the mattress, ducking free of his grasp. "Now where are you going?" Cas asked peevishly.

Dean tossed the linens in a corner behind the door. "Don't move," he warned. "I want you right there, just like that, when I get back."

Cas closed his eyes and tucked his wrists behind his head. "You have five minutes," he said, blithely unimpressed with Dean's rather anemic attempt at severity.

"Bossy, demanding," Dean complained as he jogged down the steps. "Fucking _hot_."

The dark house was quiet, absent of the usual settling noises of night. In the kitchen he found cold chicken and roasted potatoes in the refrigerator and added a generous portion of each to a chipped porcelain plate. The thin gold border shone in the moonlight from the narrow kitchen window, a dignified contrast to the deep red of the rose pattern along the rim. He grabbed a fork from a drawer, the weight of the old silver heavy in his hand as he balanced his spoils on the top of the crushed cake box. He paused at the foot of the stairs in a surreal moment of contemplation.

He was standing naked in the foyer of a 200-year-old mansion _in_ _a swamp, _while an equally naked man, _with wings,_ waited for him in a giant bed upstairs.

He shook his head with a wide grin. _Sammy would never believe this._ Then he immediately flushed because, _naked man with wings,_ and began to climb.

"You were nearly late." Cas was sitting up in bed, blessedly covered by a thin sheet.

"Very funny," Dean said, setting the plate and box carefully at the end of the bed and leaning over to kiss him, thrilling inside that he could. _Finally._ "Are you hungry?" he asked, stealing one more, wondering how many kisses he could steal before it became apparent he was addicted. He nudged Cas toward the center of the bed.

Cas frowned. There was an entire bed that Dean had but to walk around to reach, but he scooted over, making room. "I am famished," he answered, tone loaded and eyes hot as they skated over Dean's bare hip.

"Dirty," Dean retorted under his breath before he ducked under the sheet, slapping Cas' greedy hands away. "Well, I'm starved." He pulled the plate onto his lap first, tearing away a hunk of dark meat and popping it between his lips. "Mmmm," he hummed happily before offering a similar piece to Cas. "Compliments to the chef."

Cas sucked the meat from his fingers and Dean frowned when he whirled his tongue around the tips perhaps a second too long. "You're never going to play fair, are you?"

Cas shrugged and pressed slightly greasy lips to the back of Dean's hand. "No."

Dean snorted and pulled another piece from the bone. "At least you're honest." He gave this bite to Cas too, deciding he liked the way he chewed, the motion of his jaw, the way his Adam's apple bobbled when he swallowed.

_Jesus,_ he thought, a little faint. _I'm so screwed._

They ate chicken and potatoes until the plate was clear, the still of the night broken by soft laughs and husky whispers and occasional deep grumbling when Dean insisted on feeding them both.

"I've got this," Dean murmured, gently shoving away yet another roving hand and lifting the lid on the cake box.

"I am not a child," Cas complained, before allowing Dean to soothe his temper with a long kiss.

"And thank God for that," Dean quipped, scooping a mash of crust, blueberries and lemon filling on the tines of the fork.

Cas chuckled and Dean was entranced by the change in his face as he closed his lips around the pie. The lines around his eyes smoothed and softened, the tense planes of his jaw relaxed; he was handsome and carefree. Young.

"What are you staring at?" Cas asked self consciously, dabbing at his lips.

Dean flushed, realizing the fork was still poised between them. He shrugged, dipping into the box again. "You." He grinned when Cas' lips parted in anticipation, but took the bite for himself, moaning a low grunt of approval at the explosion of flavor on his tongue.

Cas frowned and grabbed the end of the fork, pulling it slowly from Dean's mouth.

Dean dragged his tongue along the length of it as it left his lips, winking at Cas' flustered expression.

"I believe I've waited long enough for my turn," Cas muttered, taking the box from Dean's lap.

"Hey!" Dean protested around flakes of pastry and fruit.

"You, Dean Winchester." Cas used the fork to separate the pie into recognizable flavors. "Are a menace." He swirled the old silver in a marbled swath of lemon and flattened meringue before holding it in front of Dean's lips in offering.

Dean opened his mouth and tipped forward.

Cas pulled the fork just out of reach. "You are also a glutton and clearly spoiled rotten."

Dean's mouth snapped shut, eyes darting from the fork to Cas' unyielding expression, patently unsure which was turning him on more. He decided he was content to play along rather than argue the fallacies in at least one of those statements and remained silent, parting his lips again when Cas brought the tines close.

Cas met him halfway, lips grazing his temple. "I would spoil you," he whispered and Dean strained to catch the words.

"Cas," he murmured, tilting his head back to meet the lips trailing over his cheekbone. He was rewarded with a savory mouthful of pie and a lengthy span of messy, tart kissing, lemon sucked from his tongue and his cheeks until his head spun. "I'm not spoiled," he said when he could finally breathe.

Cas' answering grin was soft and private.

"I'm _not_," he insisted. "You were probably a really good dad."

Cas froze, face blanking, and he was pulling away before Dean could stop him.

"Cas, no, wait." He clamped a hand around Cas' wrist in a vise, preventing him from fleeing entirely. They both waited, eyes falling on the forlorn box between them, until Cas finally relaxed, nodding once.

"I don't want to talk about that," he said in quiet apology, the hand holding the fork falling slowly to his lap.

Dean watched him try to cover his sorrow behind a cool façade, the effort spoiled by cheeks still flushed from exertion and easy laughter and the hot summer night. And kissing Dean. He pulled the forgotten fork from Cas' fingers. "Then we won't talk about it."

Cas looked up in surprise, troubled gaze clearing in gratitude and what appeared to be a glint of tenderness, different than the heat that so often preceded their usual interactions. Dean filed that away for later examination. He dipped the tines into the pale yellow filling and held the fork in front of Cas' lips.

Cas accepted, swallowing before he spoke, words hesitant but gentle, a peace offering. "What would you like to talk about?"

Dean shrugged lightly, choosing a plump blueberry for himself. "What would you like to know?"

"Your brother, Sam," Cas said too quickly, and Dean thought maybe he wasn't the only one who had was harboring a budding curiosity.

"Sam." Dean smiled fondly, slipping a hefty chunk of meringue dipped crust through Cas' lips, unable to resist leaning over to suck a stray flake of sugar-coated pastry from the corner of his mouth. "He's my only brother, my only sibling. When he was little, he was this gangly, big eyed kid with too many teeth and too-long hair."

Cas smiled at the description, settling against the headboard for the reminiscence. He toyed with the sheet at Dean's hips, one eyebrow lifting as he teased it ever so slightly lower.

"Behave," Dean warned, pointing at him with the fork. He thought about Sam at six and fourteen and twenty-one and now, mourning how quickly the time had passed, how sharp the pain that still lingered sometimes, remembering his baby brother embracing the different stages of life. He wondered if that was what fatherhood felt like. "He's smart, was always smarter than me." He waited, but no interruption or polite but misguided protest ever came and for that he was thankful, appreciating Cas' simple willingness to listen.

"Our parents died in a car wreck when I was seventeen. Sam was thirteen. We lived with our dad's best friend after that, Bobby." Dean's eyes were fogged with memories, his thoughts far away both in distance and years. "Then Sam went to college and I went to war," he ended on a sigh. The intervening years didn't matter much; they had shaped the people he and Sam had become, but there were things that couldn't be changed and ultimately no longer mattered.

"A soldier," Cas murmured, running a finger down the beaded chain hanging from Dean's neck, interrupting the melancholy train of his thoughts.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, blowing out the anxiety-riddled breath he'd been holding. "And Sam's a teacher now, an associate professor at KU in Lawrence, where we live." His chest swelled with pride as he remembered Sammy's college graduation. "He went to law school, passed the bar, and realized after about a year that he would rather be in the classroom." Dean laughed, shaking his head. "Better him than me."

"You would be an excellent teacher," Cas protested. "You are very patient, and kind. You exude a warmth and." He stopped and Dean would have sworn his cheeks visibly pinkened.

"And," Dean prodded teasingly, feeling his own skin heat with the selfish pleasure of listening to Cas describe him.

"Happiness," Cas exhaled after a beat. "You, Dean, are light. As I am dark." He expanded a wing over their heads.

Dean glanced up before meeting Cas' somber gaze. "That must be why we work."

Cas blinked in surprise, then smiled softly and lowered the wing. He accepted the pie when Dean offered it, chewing thoughtfully and watching the moonlight glint off a pair of brushed silver tags. "Tell me about your accident."

Dean inclined his head, studying the sad remains of the pie. He carefully closed the box and leaned over the side of the mattress to set it on the floor, fork resting diagonally on top. A hand slid over his bare hip and up his spine, followed by a pair of slightly sticky lips. He grinned when Cas tugged him down until he was flat on his back, and his breath hitched when a warm mouth sucked gently into the crease between his neck and shoulder, a hand pulling away the sheet that separated their skin. "Are we still talking?" he asked, biting his lip as the butterflies kicked up in his stomach again.

"Yes," Cas said the word against his neck, delicately dipping the tip of his tongue into the hollow of his throat. "Go on, I'll stop."

Dean caught him when he made as if to move away. "Don't you dare."

Cas smiled and pressed his mouth lightly to Dean's shoulder, a promise for later, but settling on the pillows beside him.

"It was," Dean hesitated before scooting back against the headboard, feeling too exposed lying uncovered in the dark. No one had ever been so interested in what he had to say, about anything really, but most certainly not about the things that mattered. Cas was present in a very real and tangible way_._ He listened without interrupting, absorbing all of Dean's words without judgment or opinion. It was heady and more than a little overwhelming. Dean tipped his chin toward the ceiling, his crown knocking against the polished mahogany, searching for the right narrative; for the first time since he had returned from the desert, he wanted to relive it long enough to share the burden of the memory.

"It was bleak. Scary." He laughed darkly. "I thought I was a hotshot. Tough kid, didn't care much for school. Lost both my parents in one split second and never even cried."

Cas rolled into his side and fit his palm at Dean's waist, sensing his need to be touched, grounded.

"But then I found myself in the middle of the desert, and it was hot and lonely and desolate." Dean smiled down at the face nearly obscured in shadow. "There were spiders so big they _might_ have given me a slight advantage when it came time to meet you."

Cas rubbed his chin thoughtfully against Dean's ribs, squeezing him when he shivered. "What do you mean?"

Dean laughed softly. "That tickles. And I'm talking measurable in feet, Cas. Not inches. The stuff of horror movies and nightmares." He shuddered. "I hate spiders."

"As do I," Cas admitted solemnly and Dean snorted.

"So you, you weren't really that different, all things considered." Dean stroked the forearm that lay across his belly. "You were scary and unbelievable and kind of beautiful." He trailed off, feeling a blush sneak across his skin. "And I'm a huge sap who should think before he speaks," he added ruefully.

"Thank you," Cas said quietly.

Dean squeezed his arm before continuing. "So, there I was, in the desert, bored out of my skull for the most part. Been there two and a half years, three fucking _weeks_ from coming home," Dean blew out a hard breath. "And the transport chopper I was traveling in was shot down."

Cas sat up on an elbow and traced the scar on Dean's shoulder, pushing him gently forward so he could follow it down his back. "This too?"

"Uh huh," Dean nodded. Cas' fingers left needle points of electricity where they trailed the mottled edges of damaged tissue. "I was thrown to the ground before the whole damn thing exploded. Saved my life." He tapped his temple. "But it blew apart my inner ear, and the shrapnel tore me up pretty good. They said I was lucky I didn't lose the eye too."

His mind drifted into that faraway place of dark smoke and intense heat, of desert sand and falling, falling, falling; after a moment of quiet breathing Cas pulled him back into the present, urging him down to the bed again. When Dean was under him, Cas kissed the damaged eyebrow and shoulder and then his lips. "Then what?"

"I don't remember," Dean whispered, eyes closed, deciding that _feeling_ was more important than thinking right now. "I dream about it, the smoke and the fire and the screams…" He stopped because that's all it was, all it _ever_ was. "I was the only survivor," he admitted softly. "Me. Dean Winchester, high school drop out."

Cas didn't know what the words meant, but he understood the sentiment behind them and he hushed him, soothing in the only way he knew how, with his hands and his mouth until Dean was distracted and tender, and they were both lost in what the other could give.

They fell asleep after, between long kisses and whispered laughter, the moon spilling over the bed in a pale mist of grey.

…

Dean was startled awake by Gabriel's indignant squawk.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Gabe lamented, clapping a hand over his eyes.

When he didn't move from the bedroom doorway, Dean chuckled sleepily. "Sorry padre." He craned a hand around for the sheet but failed to locate it given his limited mobility. He shoved at the body draped over him. "Cas."

Cas grunted.

"Cas, move." Dean prodded his side.

Gabe stood frozen in place, muttering to himself, eyes still safely ensconced behind his palm. "But the broken glass," he said, voice small and confused.

"Foreplay," Cas grumbled, rolling off of Dean. He tossed the sheet behind him when Dean flailed wildly to cover up all the bits Cas' wings no longer hid.

"Oh God," Gabe said, backing blindly out of the room.

"I'm hungry!" Dean called. "If you're suffering from voyeur guilt!"

Cas opened one eye. "How can you possibly be hungry?"

Dean threw the free corner of the sheet over Cas' bare butt and snuggled up close. "I'm still recuperating," he said cheekily.

"It's too hot to cuddle." Cas' voice was muffled as he planted his face in the downy softness of the pillow.

"I'm not cuddling!" Dean protested, hooking one leg over Cas' thigh. He grinned when Cas' wing twitched as he ran a finger over the arch at the top. "You want to go cuddle in the shower?" He scratched a hard line down the center of Cas' back when he didn't immediately respond.

Cas growled, the deep sound vibrating through the mattress.

"Was that a yes?" Dean whispered, wondering if he could somehow dredge up the stamina to finish what he was about to start. On an empty stomach no less.

Cas raised his head to glare at him. "I'm tired. _Someone_ didn't allow for much sleep last night."

Dean kissed his grumpy mouth. "You're really hot when you're mad." He wagged his eyebrows. "All that shower, Cas. You, me. Wet. Naked," he wheedled.

Cas huffed and covered Dean's head in a flurry of feathers, pushing him down on the bed. "Go back to sleep."

"Hey," Dean chuckled. "Not fair." He breathed deep. God_damn_ feathery Cas smelled good. He dug his fingers into the down and twisted lightly.

"Dean," Cas warned, yanking the wing back and sitting up in one fluid motion.

Dean blinked at his rapid change in position. "How do you do that?"

"I'm cursed. It has its perks."

Dean's laughter rang out, echoing down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Gabe grinned, kneeling over the dustpan and sweeping up the last of the glittering shards. He shook his head. "Today is shaping up to be a beautiful day."

…

"I don't understand the point of this lesson," Cas said stiffly, poking the black rectangle apprehensively.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Pick it up and I'll show you." He pecked out a text message with his thumbs and the phone in front of Cas lit up, jiggling across the table as it buzzed excitedly.

Cas peered at the lit screen but didn't touch the phone.

"Cas_._" Dean said in exasperation.

**_Dean: _**_This is a text message. It's 21st century letter writing, Cas._

Cas studied the message thoughtfully and then glanced at Dean. "And how do I respond?"

Dean hid his grin. _I've got you now,_ he thought. He might have been secretly plotting about a hundred dirty text messages in the aftermath of last night. "Well, first you have to _touch it._" He looked pointedly at the phone on the table.

Cas sighed and gingerly picked up the device in one hand, his face clearly expressing distrust. When it didn't do anything remarkable after several seconds, he raised his eyes to Dean's. "Make it write again."

"No. You have to answer me first. That's how it works. I text you," Dean nodded to the phone. "And then you text me back."

Cas frowned in consternation. "I don't know how."

"Look," Dean leaned over the table and pointed at the keys. "Each letter is here. You just press them to type. Like this." He was upside down, but he started a simple reply. "And then you hit this arrow to send it to me."

"Hmm," Cas sniffed and slapped Dean's hand away. "I can do that."

Dean chuckled. "I figured." He sat back in his chair and waited. While Cas carefully picked out letters on the tiny keyboard, Dean's eyes fell on the dishes soaking in the sink and the sun shining the bright yellow of Indian summer in the back yard. Gabriel had cleaned up the broken glass before cooking breakfast, although he had gone back to his little house before they had emerged from the shower.

Dean suppressed a blissful shiver recalling the hour _after_ he had coaxed Cas from bed.

The shower was definitely built for two.

And Cas, naked, wet, dark wings dripping as they pinned Dean against the tile wall, was a sensory overload Dean was pretty damn excited to repeat just as soon as his sore and tired body had recovered.

He was going to be the cleanest goddamn mechanic this side of the Mississippi.

The phone in his hand buzzed.

**_Cas:_**_ Thank you for the phone and the brief lesson in 21st century letter writing. I appreciate your restraint in the amount of sarcasm used during instruction. I would like to take this opportunity to retract my earlier statement about you being a wonderful teacher._

Dean snorted. "Funny."

Cas raised his eyebrows, waiting.

"Okay, okay," Dean muttered, typing quickly.

**_Dean:_**_ Shut up. I'm an excellent teacher. You would have never even thought to use that coconut lotion in your shower that way before I showed you._

Cas' lips pursed.

**_Cas: _**_Erroneous. _

Dean grinned. _Juicy. Do tell, flyboy._

**_Cas: _**_Tell or show? Or perhaps you would prefer both; a narrated tale._

**_Dean:_**_ I'm going to be sorry I got you this phone, huh?_

**_Cas: _**_Probably._

Dean snorted and flapped his fingers. "Ok, give it to me. That's enough." He shifted in his seat, jeans a little tighter than when he sat down twenty minutes ago.

"No, it's mine," Cas said with a frown, holding it out of reach. He waved to the back door. "You should go work on your car now. I'll take care of the dishes."

"You know damn good and well you just want to ogle my ass as I walk out," Dean said drily but he stood anyway, tight crotch be damned. He leaned over the table and Cas obliged, standing and giving him a long kiss. "I'll be outside," he said a little breathlessly. "Working on my car."

Cas nodded solemnly. "I'll be inside. Ogling your ass through the upstairs window."

Dean laughed and wiped his hand across his mouth self-consciously. "You really are a monster." He swallowed the impulse to drag Cas down on the partially cleared kitchen table and have a go at round four. "I'll just be outside then." He ignored Cas' smugly satisfied look as he stepped through the screen.

His phone buzzed before he was halfway to the Impala.

**_Cas: _**_It is very hot. You should remove your shirt._

Dean chuckled. It was going to be a long morning.

…

It took Cas less than two days to master the cell phone, including the camera function.

Dean made very little progress on the car.

Gabriel began to bake an assortment of pies.

On the third night, Dean had his first nightmare in several days, but this time when he awoke with a scream on his lips and the panicked closure in his throat, someone was ready and waiting, wrapping around him, easing breath back into his lungs with a kiss. The dream faded much quicker than before, Dean discovered, chased away by the warm closeness of another body and whispered assurances across his skin. It was a release in a way it never had been, and as sleep reclaimed him Dean wondered if he would ever have the dream again.

He was changing the socket on his wrench, leaning against the driver's side door when his new phone jangled from the top tray of the toolbox.

**_Sam: _**_How goes the repairs grease monkey?_

Dean smiled. "Smartass," he muttered. _They go, professor. How's everything at home without me there to hold it together?_

He frowned when Sam didn't immediately reply and held the phone in the shade provided by the side of the car, wondering if he had lost service. He was lucky to get two bars over most of the property. When it buzzed again, he sighed in relief, only to find it wasn't from Sam.

**_Cas:_**_ I would like to have lunch now. _

Dean grinned and tapped out a reply. _Yes, your highness._

**_Cas:_**_ All subjects must do the bidding of the royal in residence. You do realize._

**_Dean: _**_Well I was hoping._

Cas appeared in the yard in that eerie, invisibly silent way of his and Dean's heart never had a prayer of getting over the initial shocked thumping before Cas was pushing him into the shade under the eaves and crushing their mouths together. Dean moaned a little, hot and sweaty and hands full of smooth skin and a fine layer of feathers and _Christ,_ but he was getting desperate for this, the minutes and hours that passed between the last time they were together and now, each increment getting shorter but somehow more distracting and need-filled.

A car horn startled them both and Dean jumped back, eyes going immediately to the bayou and beyond, where the gravel road waited, still inaccessible.

A tall figure stood beside a familiar wrecker, arm raised in a broad wave.

It was Sam.

…


	11. Chapter 10

"Sam," Dean breathed, face slack with a mixture of shock and joy.

Cas sank deep into the darkness provided by the corner overhang of the roof, reconciling his need to touch Dean with the need to hide.

"Wait," Dean reached for him, hands falling through the humid air as Cas escaped along the chipping exterior paint. "Cas, wait."

"Your brother," Cas finally said, pausing only because the voice that urged him to had become too vital, his familiar opposition having vanished, lost somewhere between the kitchen or the yard or their bed.

"Just," Dean bit his lip, trying to process the rapid turn of events, swallowing a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that said somehow he and Cas had turned a corner too sharp, misguided, and now they weren't going to make the curve. "Let me go talk to him, okay? Jesus," he exhaled, mind reeling. "How the fuck did he find me?"

"Go, I'll be in the house." Cas was a calm voice of reassurance, and then he was gone, slipping around to the rear entrance, wings shadowed, green glint obscured without the buttery touch of sun.

"Yeah, okay," Dean said to the faded white wall before he started across the yard, each step stinging with a hint of failure, though at what he couldn't be quite sure. "Sammy!" he called excitedly when he was close enough, brushing aside the disquiet and concentrating on his gladness. His eyes widened when a second, smaller figure joined his brother at the door of the truck.

"How the hell you managed to end up trapped in the back forty of nowhere is beyond me." Sam raised his voice over the rush of the water, wide grin on his face. He patted Jo on the head and she swatted him away. "We were beginning to think the locals were playing a joke on the tourists when they drew us that map!"

Dean didn't miss the barely concealed relief in his brother's eyes. "Long story, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Who was the guy?" Jo asked and there was something in her tone that put Dean on alert.

"He owns the house," he said evenly, feeling the strain of carefully kept composure, ignoring the probable futility of the effort.

Jo's expression showed that she was well aware Dean was sharing a portion of the truth, and the specifics were probably ten times more volatile than he was revealing. "Uh huh."

Sam elbowed her in the side. "Come on, Jo," he laughed. "Don't mind her, she's still cranky because she got car sick about twenty miles back."

"I did not," Jo huffed, shoving back.

Dean frowned. "You never get car sick."

"Oh my _God,_" she groaned. "Would you two lay off? For pity sake, I'm _fine._"

"Calm down," Dean soothed. "You're awesome. And apparently still a master tracker. How the hell did you two find me?"

Sam grinned and reached through the open window to retrieve a familiar pink cake box. "Benny's? You bragged about the pie. I figured you were on a first name basis with all the short order cooks in town by now."

Dean laughed and shook his head, but a flash of guilt unsettled him; Cas' anger and concern had been warranted. If Benny had no qualms revealing his location to Sam, how long before he told others? What gossip had already swelled because of Dean's presence? Eventually the idea would germinate that the old Godwyne house was no longer off limits for exploration.

"Okay, so we're here. Now how do we get across?" Jo interrupted the worrisome track of Dean's thoughts. "Fly?"

Dean's eyes met hers and he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck; she knew. He didn't know how she possibly could have seen anything substantial from her vantage in the wrecker, but he had also learned long ago not to underestimate Joanna Beth Harvelle. "Hang tight and I'll go figure out the best way to get you over to my side of paradise." He winked and hoped his false optimism would hold water.

"And bring me a beer! I'm thirsty!" Sam called as Dean waded through the thick grass of the gently sloped incline.

When he looked back before he rounded the corner for the kitchen door, Sam and Jo were sitting on the bed of the wrecker, sharing whatever Benny had provided in the box. "If that's pie, they by God better save me some," he grumbled.

Cas wasn't in the kitchen, or the pantry or foyer, the house too quiet, its dark stillness a symbol of its age and the absence of life and home. Dean slowed as he climbed the quiet stairs, a heaviness clenching at his heart; Sam and Jo's appearance meant his time here was done. It was strange how the thought was not as welcoming as it might have been just a few days ago.

He found Cas in the bedroom, familiar and beautiful, framed by the windowpanes in the midday light as he watched over the visitors to the bayou, the same as he had done countless times before.

"I will carry you across the water, down the bend and through the woods where we won't be seen."

Dean shook off the brief start of fear at the unexpected words, smiling sadly at the easiness of Cas' delivery. "No," he said, quiet and firm.

Cas turned, mouth drawn tight in a frown, eyes shadowed. "What else would you have me do? Allow you to wade into that godforsaken swamp in another misguided and foolish show of bravery?"

Dean walked slowly to the window, ignoring the magnetic pull of the body as he passed. His eyes followed the snaking shape of the river, still dangerously high, moss dripping from the trees in a curtain of grey against the lushness of the greens and browns. He studied the view, Cas' penance, wondering if it had changed at all in the century past, or the one preceding. He turned his back on it, hands comfortingly steady as they reached for the handsome face beside him, soothing the confusion and anguish he could feel thrumming beneath the skin. When he kissed him, Cas sighed into his mouth, a whisper soft exchange of breath that Dean took, gladly.

"What are you doing?" Cas murmured, lower lip tacky and soft, clinging to Dean's when he pulled away as though the skin itself was coaxing a reversal of their parting.

Dean chewed the inside of his cheek, nervous. "I thought you might carry Sam and Jo over here, to our side," he finally said, holding his breath, thumbprint dragging against the darkened jaw.

Cas closed his eyes and they were suspended in that moment, tethered together by the touch of Dean's hand. "What you ask," Cas pulled free of Dean's grasp, feeling the loss all the way to the bone as the fingers fell from his face. "What you ask may hurt us both."

Dean watched Cas war with the request, emotions playing across his features and shadowing his eyes. Dean reached for him again, not in persuasion, but because he needed to be touching him when they did this, refused to give that up, unwilling to acknowledge the significance. Not yet. He tugged at slim hips until they nestled against his own, until they were wrapped in each other, arms and wings and mouths, a tangle of heat and breath, and Cas relented, laughing silently into Dean's neck.

"You are a scoundrel, Dean Winchester, and a worthy opponent," he mumbled.

"I'm sorry," Dean said softly, and he had never felt the meaning behind the sentiment more strongly. No matter how Sam reacted, or Jo, there was no easy ending to their story and the countdown had begun. Dean didn't belong here.

Cas straightened and when his gaze met Dean's, his eyes were clear, the blue fierce and shining. "I'm not."

Dean's throat tightened. _Neither am I,_ he thought, but he couldn't force the words past his lips. He sucked oxygen in shallow sips, pulse too fast, as Cas led him from the room and down the steps, hands warm and solid and entwined. When they reached the front door, Dean hesitated. "Give me about ten minutes? Fifteen at the outside? Might be better if I try to explain, what to expect."

Cas' smile was thoughtful. "I suppose I don't have time to arrange a heroic rescue from George."

"Don't even joke about that," Dean shuddered. He was consumed with a desire to kiss him again, to push Cas against the door and remember how good it was between them, reassure them both that nothing had changed. He paused, hand on the knob, until he had waited too long, until he was no longer sure Cas would welcome the reminder. He cleared his throat self-consciously. "Fifteen minutes. Then come down and I'll introduce you to my little brother."

Cas' solemn expression softened at Dean's choice of wording and he nodded.

…

"Jesus Christ_,_" Sam exhaled, eyes as wide as saucers. His mouth worked as he looked at Dean and then at Jo and then back at the winged man standing beside his brother across the river. "Jesus fucking _Christ._"

Jo snorted. "You said that already."

Dean didn't need even his rudimentary lip reading skills to comprehend the exchange. "You done?"

"I, uh." Sam stuttered and raked his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots until it hurt, as if to assure himself he was awake. "I'm speechless."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't mind Sammy's theatrics, Cas, what he's trying to say is _nice to meet you._" He glared at Sam pointedly.

Jo snickered, so Dean glared at her too.

Sam blinked. "Can I touch him?"

Dean choked. "Oh my God, Sam, no!"

"Yes," Cas said matter-of-factly before shooting over the bayou and landing lightly on his feet, an arms breadth away from the hood of the truck.

"Holy shit," Jo whispered.

"Hey!" Dean called, perturbed at the glint he thought he could read in Sam's eyes as he approached a very still and serious Cas. "Goddammit," he muttered. He knew Cas was playing along, trying to assuage Sam's concerns, but more than that he was doing what he thought _Dean_ wanted him to do.

Not that Dean harbored any real fear about Sam, or Jo.

He ground his teeth together when Sam ran a hand over Cas' left wing and it fluttered in response, feathers ruffling and shifting under his touch. Sam circled Cas, bolder, lightly touching the fine down at his neck.

Dean shifted his weight impatiently. When Sam reached for the joint over the scapular region, he had had enough. "For fuck's sake Sam, it's not a goddamn petting zoo!"

Sam dropped his hand guiltily. "Sorry," he said meekly and returned to Jo's side.

"Dean has become accustomed to these." Cas raised the dark appendages. "He forgets that he once was just as fascinated as you."

"Accustomed, huh," Jo hummed, rocking back on her heels. She glanced over the bayou to where Dean was pacing a worn path through the grass.

"So how do we do this?" Sam asked nervously.

Jo rolled her eyes at his barely contained excitement. She waved with a dramatic flourish. "Ladies first," she smirked.

"Very funny," Sam said dryly, but he couldn't hold back a grin when Cas held out a hand.

A few seconds later he was staring up at the bluest sky he had ever seen. It would have been perfect except for Dean's giant head blocking the yellow warmth of the sun.

"The landing's a bitch, ain't it?" Dean grinned.

"Shut up," Sam groaned, brain scrambled as he tried to decide if Cas unceremoniously dumping him on the riverbank was payback for the groping or some bayou rite of passage. He scowled when Cas deposited Jo gently beside Dean, steadying her before he released her. "Why didn't Jo get thrown to the ground like last week's garbage," Sam grumbled as he climbed to his feet. He shoved Dean's proffered hand away irritably.

"She's—" Cas stopped at Jo's sharp look. "A lady," he finished with a little bow.

Dean's mouth watered at the combination of pretty manners and the return of the white shirt; Cas must have put it on while he waited for Dean to explain things to his brother, in an attempt to appear presentable. The crisp collar did things to Dean's midsection and his fingers twitched with a flash of sense memory, the smooth feel of the linen under his hands tangible and inviting.

"Dean!" Jo snapped her fingers in front of his face.

Dean blinked. "What?"

"Uh, stranger? No wings, two o'clock?" Jo pointed over his shoulder.

Dean glanced back and grinned, slapping his forehead. "Oh God, sorry. Gabriel."

Gabe expression was filled with uncertainty as he approached the group, perplexed by Cas' unusual show of hospitality.

Dean Winchester, it seemed, changed _everything._

"Sam, Jo, this is Gabriel, former priest and current master gardener and carpenter," Dean winked.

Gabe didn't miss the nervous flutter of Dean's movements and he tried to decipher the significance of this exchange. He only wished his own future didn't hinge so purely on the heart of the former soldier standing in front of him. He had grown fond of Dean, exceptionally so, and it would be hard to see him leave under any circumstances. Knowing that Dean's exit had just been hastened by the appearance of these strangers, likely circumventing the end of two hundred years of tragedy and loss, made his words more cool than they might otherwise have been.

"How do you do," he said, taking first the girl's small hand, enjoying a flash of humor at her firm grip, before turning to the man. His eyes widened as they traveled up, and up, before they met sparkling hazel eyes and cheeks flushed with excitement. Or maybe the heat; he couldn't be sure.

Gabriel swallowed.

Sam quirked an eyebrow, glancing at Dean in confusion.

Dean poked Gabe on the shoulder. "Padre."

"Sorry," Gabe started, thrusting his hand forward and accepting Sam's handshake. "Father Gabriel." He cringed. _Why did he introduce himself as a priest?_

Castiel snorted, then hid his smile at Gabe's frown.

"Sam Winchester," Sam grinned and shook the strange little man's hand enthusiastically. "You're a priest?"

"Holy as they come," Dean teased jovially, slapping Gabe on the back before gesturing for the group to head up the hill to the house. Cas fell naturally in step beside him until Jo nudged her way between them, peppering Cas with questions.

"So, Castiel. Are you married?"

"Jo," Dean groaned.

"It's all right, Dean."

The rest of Cas' reply was lost in a gust of humid wind. Sam fidgeted when Gabriel didn't seem inclined to follow the group. "Maybe we should?" he asked, tilting his head in the direction of the house.

Gabe blinked and glanced around. "Oh! Sorry," he muttered, turning too quick and tangling his right foot in a knot of dense undergrowth. He pitched forward and Sam caught him by the biceps just before Gabe face planted in his chest.

"Careful now," Sam said. He grinned when Gabe's cheeks flushed bright pink. "You okay?"

Gabe took two giant steps back, the imprint of Sam's fingers on his skin oddly tingling and warm. "I'm fine. Thank you," he said stiffly, inclining his head and striding purposefully through the grasses.

When he tripped over a rock forty yards later, Sam kept him on his feet with a hand to his elbow.

Gabe sent a prayer heavenward that he be allowed to die immediately.

No one answered.

…

"I don't understand how the curse will be lifted," Sam said, chewing thoughtfully.

Three occupants of the dining room froze.

"Buzzkill," Jo whispered.

Sam glanced around guiltily. "Sorry," he winced. "Did I overstep?"

"I'm not really clear on that myself," Dean said. He watched Cas carefully school his expression.

Cas set his fork on his plate with a sigh. "I'm not entirely sure, either." He looked at Gabriel. "Are you?" he asked, frustration coloring his tone. "Now? After this," he waved his hand to encompass the room, but Gabe knew he was encompassing one person in particular.

Gabe shook his head. "No. But obviously we're missing something important."

If Cas flinched, Dean pretended not to see it, the knot that had been forming in the center of his chest all afternoon a confusing sensation of fear and hope and failure. "Well, maybe if you tell us everything, we can figure it out. Together."

"No." Cas' response was quick.

Dean bristled. "What do you mean, _no_? If I can help, if _we_ can help, Cas, then why not let us? I mean, what could it hurt?"

Cas' eyes were snapping and dark in the candlelight and Dean wanted to look away from their intensity but he forced himself to take it, neck heating as he remembered that same focus directed at him in another manner altogether. _God,_ _he's gorgeous when he's angry,_ he thought, wishing stupidly they were alone so he could goad Cas into a fight and then make it up to him after.

"Nevermind my own rather obvious imperfection, would you have me risk Gabriel's _life_?" Cas finally asked, throwing his cream linen napkin on the table, knocking over an empty water glass.

"Okay, okay," Sam soothed, hands waving Cas back into his seat. "You two been at it like this all week?"

"Yes," Gabe offered with a dejected sigh and Sam laughed.

"Padre, we can swap Dean stories later," he winked.

Gabe's mouth snapped shut and he looked quickly away from the handsome fellow seated unfortunately to his left. Unfortunate because his damned muscular forearm brushed Gabe's every time he reached for his water, and Gabe was never sure if he was supposed to grit his teeth and bear it or if he would be forgiven for scooting his chair a few inches to the right in an effort to save his sanity.

He had barely eaten a bite.

"You've hardly touched your food," Sam said. He reached for his water glass and smiled kindly when Gabe snatched his arm from the table.

"I'm not hungry," Gabe lied. He was starving, but his stomach was jumping nervously and he really wanted nothing more than to go back to his little house and hide under his scratchy wool blankets until morning.

Jo had watched the entire tableau with a long-suffering scowl. Dean and Cas were still glaring at each other, and if the too-high color along the top of Dean's cheekbones was any indication, he was about three point five seconds from letting his monster boyfriend take him upstairs and show him who was really in control of their relationship. Meanwhile, to her left, Professor Winchester's shampoo model good looks had provided about a month's worth of confessional material to a two hundred year old Catholic priest.

She was going to bed.

"I'm going to bed," she said disgustedly, shoving back from the table. "Bedroom?" She asked when the men around the table stared at her with uncertainty, save Castiel who shot to his feet and gave a tiny bow.

"You may use Dean's bedroom," Cas said, tone formal and, _Goddammit, _Dean thought, _sexy as hell. _

"I'm not even going to ask," Jo muttered and left the room ahead of Cas when he gestured.

Sam studied Dean's nervous movements thoughtfully. "Are we bunking somewhere else then?"

"I will bring clean linens," Gabe offered stiffly and stood. He blinked when Sam stood too.

"Thanks, Gabe."

Gabe ignored the friendly grin and made it all the way into the yard before he stumbled.

He lay on his back in the grass looking up at a twinkling sky full of stars, a stranger's kind eyes and pretty smile heating his groin in an altogether wonderful and frighteningly new way. "Fucking hell," he complained under his breath.

…

It was long past midnight when Sam's soft snores finally alerted Dean that he was asleep.

He eased out of the bed they were sharing and padded silently from the room. He paused outside of Cas' cracked door, smiling at the sliver of moonlight that spilled into the hall, knowing it was as bold an invitation as he was likely going to get.

"Why are you still dressed?"

Dean jumped at the lips against the back of his neck. "Dammit, Cas," he whispered, shuddering when hands went right to his fly, pushing the door open and Dean through it while simultaneously making quick work of his button and zipper. He shivered at the first touch of fingers on his skin.

"What took you so long?" Cas kissed the words between his shoulder blades, sucking small bites of skin between his teeth, hands pulling Dean free from his undergarments.

"Sam," Dean gasped, head lolling back, grasping at Cas' bare thighs for purchase, needing an anchor as sensation overwhelmed his body. "_Fuck._"

"Take these off," Cas ordered, flicking one of his hands at the waistband hanging loose around Dean's hips, the other hand reacquainting with velvety soft skin and hard smoothness and repeating all the touches that made Dean's breath catch in his throat.

"Can't," Dean shook his head, unwilling to move. "Don't you dare stop," he added between embarrassingly rapid draws of necessary air.

Cas chuckled darkly against his neck and traced his tongue along the juncture of his throat, priming the area for a gentle kiss before biting into it and sucking hard.

Dean groaned loudly, knees buckling and Cas caught him fast around the waist.

"Stay with me," Cas whispered against his ear and Dean shook his head again.

"Can't hear you," he mumbled, eyes closed against the onslaught. When he came over Cas' fingers seconds later, his lungs burned, on fire, before he remembered to breathe.

Cas petted and soothed him, coaxing him back to lucidity with soft touches and warm lips, holding their bodies snugly together as he guided them to the bed.

Dean had the sense to lose the rest of his clothes before he fell into the sheets. "Give me five minutes," he said with a sultry grin.

Cas laughed softly and lowered himself on top of him, their bodies slotting together, chiseled pieces of the same whole. "I'll just be here, then," he said cheekily, sucking lazily at Dean's neck.

Dean sighed, contented and relaxed, arms heavy when he lifted them to wrap around Cas so that he could rake his fingers over the sensitive bits of his wings, give Cas a little teaser while he worked up to the main event.

Cas growled into the skin of his throat when Dean scratched deep into the silky down, and he shifted, fitting his hardness into the channel of Dean's thighs.

Dean bit his lip to contain his shameless panting; over-sensitive or not, the feel of Cas against the most intimate parts of him was still painfully good. "I don't suppose you've ever—" he stopped, suddenly shy, thankful for the darkness of the night.

"Only in my dreams," Cas replied smoothly, beginning to mouth a path down Dean's body, reawakening all of the nerve endings formerly shocked into blissful complacency by Dean's first orgasm.

"Jesus fuck," Dean exhaled, keeping his hands encased in feathers, requiring Cas to raise his wings high as he traveled lower. "I," he swallowed. "I have some stuff, in my wallet." Suddenly he started to laugh, a soft chuckle that filled the silent bedroom, because his face was flaming, his body was _burning,_ and the sexiest damn mouth he'd ever seen was gently nibbling at his groin. That he found it so traumatizing to explain lube to the handsome creature nestled between his thighs was somehow incredibly funny.

He gasped when Cas unexpectedly sat up, dragging Dean into his lap, forcing his legs around his waist.

Cas smiled at him, teeth flashing in the moonlight as he ran his hands over Dean's flat stomach. "I like this." He dipped a hand around to cup his firm cheek, grazing the seam.

Dean squirmed, fisting his hands in the sheets. "You would," he muttered, squeezing his thighs tight around Cas' slim waist, secretly enjoying being manhandled. Cas was ticking off all of his hidden kinks as sure as if he were going down a list.

"Where is your '_stuff'_?" Cas asked, winking. "And more importantly, are you going to elaborate?"

Dean's mouth was dry as Cas slid out from under him on the bed. In the few days they had been together, Cas had granted him carte blanche to touch and taste at will. But that body, over him, in him, that was the big one. And Dean was finally going to have it.

"I'm unfortunately not really an expert," Dean quipped when he found his tongue.

Cas triumphantly lifted Dean's wallet from his jean's pocket and tossed it on the bedclothes. He crawled back over Dean and kissed him deep. "We'll figure it out," he said with such confidence that Dean laughed.

"I love you," he said with wide grin.

Cas froze.

Dean's lips parted, his mind a dizzying kaleidoscope of color and sound and a week's worth of tiny moments. He didn't know where the words had come from; they were just there, waiting to be spoken. His hands tightened on Cas' waist.

"I love you," he said again, closing the distance between their mouths.

Cas let Dean kiss him, overcome. By the time he had processed the weight of the moment, Dean was pulling away.

"What are you not telling me, Cas?" Dean whispered. "What happens after two hundred years?"

Cas cut him off, capturing his lips in a hungry, desperate attempt to claim the man beneath him, body and soul, heart breaking because he had found at last the key to unlocking his every secret desire in the form of a soldier as lonely as he.

But the wings that remained hovering above them in the large bed told him that somehow, it was not enough.

Dean felt the desperation in Cas' movements, and tasted the sorrow, and tried to absorb it all as he guided liquid slick hands in place, until their bodies were in sync, joined. Their hips slowed, matching rhythms, and Cas pulled at Dean's dog tags, urging him off the bed to meet his mouth.

The angle was awkward, and hotter than hell, and Dean sucked at the tongue that playfully prodded his own. His vision swam when he was close, and he could feel Cas prolonging his own release, the effort staining his chest a lovely shade of rose. Dean had had plenty of sex in his life, but never like this, without the unspoken divide that protected his heart.

This was devouring, and being devoured.

"I love you," he said against Cas' mouth, falling backward and taking the strong figure with him, wrapping them together, covered in a dark blanket of heavy silken feathers.

The whispered words broke the fierce hold on Cas' control and he shattered, a thousand pieces of light, every last atom an outcry of joy to the universe. He collapsed beside Dean on the bed, torn apart at the seams, grateful for the strong arms that gathered him close, soothing him through the aftershocks before lulling him gently to sleep.

…


	12. Chapter 11

Jo entered the bedroom in a rush, face pale, hair clinging to her cheeks in damp strands. "Bathroom," she barked at the jumble of blankets and feathers on the bed.

Dean lifted his head, blinking sleepily, and pointed.

Cas winced when the bathroom door was closed with enough force to rattle the window glass. "In a house this size you would think a man might enjoy a little privacy," he mumbled into Dean's neck.

Dean chuckled, petting the forearm wrapped snugly around his chest. "You get used to it." He squirmed when he felt the change in Cas' breathing pattern just before a lingering kiss was placed behind his ear. "Cas," he warned under his breath.

Cas sighed and released him, allowing space between them. "She's sick."

"What?" Dean's head quirked as he listened for any telltale signs. "How do you know?"

"I can hear her." He ran a fingertip over Dean's scarred temple.

Dean frowned and rolled out of bed.

"Dean—"

"I'll be right back," Dean reassured him, knocking once perfunctorily on the door before walking in.

"Go away," Jo moaned, cradling the bowl of the toilet.

Dean pulled a washcloth from the shelf by the door and ran it under a cold stream of water in the sink, filling a glass before crouching beside her on the tile.

"You're an asshole," Jo muttered, words echoing hollowly against the porcelain.

"So you keep telling me," Dean soothed, folding the cool, wet cloth and gently laying it across the back of her neck. He nudged the glass of water into her hand. "Rinse."

"Uh uh," Jo shook her head miserably, but Dean noted the way she sank into the warmth of his knee at her back. Her shoulders were trembling.

"Rinse like a good girl and I'll let you drive the car home."

Jo lifted her head, eyes bleary and red-rimmed. "Liar." But she took the water and swished and spit twice before pushing it away again.

She sagged against him and he caught the folded terrycloth square before it slid to the floor. He sighed and sat back against the wall, pulling Jo into his lap, wiping her clammy brow with the damp washcloth. "So. Who do I cock my shotgun at? And please don't tell me it's the shaggy haired dude down the hall. I don't think there's enough bleach in the world to rinse that image from my brain."

"Shut up," Jo snickered pitifully, burying her nose in Dean's neck. He smelled good, like warm, salty caramels and hot chocolate and spice cake. "Why are all the good ones taken, Dean?"

Dean frowned when he felt something wet roll down his throat and onto his chest.

"Everything all right?" Cas asked quietly from the doorway.

To Jo's credit, she didn't even flinch and Dean gave her a soft squeeze. That was his girl; she had walked in on her surrogate big brother in bed with a (winged) man, and hadn't so much as batted an eye. "Yup, we'll be right out."

"Jo, do you feel you could eat something?"

"No," she groaned, as though the mere words were her death knell.

"I'll be back," Cas said to Dean before slipping out of the bathroom.

"He's too pretty for you," Jo muttered thickly against his chest, the words accompanied by a loud sniff.

Dean snorted. "He's too something, all right," he agreed. He jiggled her easily into a more comfortable position; she was such a scrappy thing, tiny knuckles dangerous and sharp, feet too quick and aim too precise, he forgot how small she was in reality. "And don't change the subject. Spill the beans, Joanna Beth."

Jo sighed deeply but refused to look at him, and when she spoke, Dean understood why. "Victor," was her muffled, nearly unintelligible reply.

But not unintelligible enough.

"Victor _Henriksen?_" Dean nearly tossed her to the floor, but caught himself when she whimpered.

Jo nodded dejectedly and if her face hadn't been tinged a sickly pea green when she finally raised her sad eyes to meet his, Dean might have held onto his disgust a little bit longer.

He gritted his teeth and breathed through his nose to calm himself. "Victor is a raging douchebag asshole, Jo," he ground out.

"If you would have given him half a chance," Jo began.

"You mean before or after he threw me in the clink?" Dean's voice bounced off the cold tile walls.

"You broke his nose."

"Yeah, well he had his hands all over you," he scowled, remembering the crunch of fist on bone with a tiny spurt of satisfaction.

"We were on a date!" Jo shouted, then winced and grabbed her stomach. "I'm going to be sick," she whispered.

Dean held her hair while she dry heaved over the toilet. He patted her back soothingly, grumbling under his breath. "Does Sam know?"

"God, no!" Jo said, voice husky as she collapsed into Dean's lap again. "For a smart dude, he's shockingly obtuse."

Dean chuckled. "Well then I can stop playing the overprotective big brother. Because Sam is going to _kill_ him."

"I know," Jo said glumly.

They sat on the cold floor of the bathroom, the quiet _drip drip_ of the faucet the only sound.

"Is he divorced yet?" Dean finally asked, the million-dollar question and his biggest beef with the relationship from the start. Victor Henriksen, handsome, well-spoken, with hot dark eyes only for Jo, had appeared in their midst last winter when he had been assigned a cold case. In a roundabout way, the Roadhouse, Jo's mother's establishment, had been a key factor in the case and Victor had become a regular fixture in the bar, both on duty and off.

After he had solved the case and received a commendation from the chief of police, he hadn't disappeared, much to Sam and Dean's chagrin. No, he continued to shamelessly flirt with what amounted to their baby sister, even though he apparently still had a wife somewhere back east. Separated or not, to Dean's mind, married was married.

Then Dean broke his nose. He and Victor had never really come back from that.

"I told him not to bother contacting me until he had the paper in his hand," Jo whispered.

"And how long ago was that?"

Jo's face crumpled. "Four weeks."

"So he has no idea."

Jo shook her head wordlessly.

"Jo—"

"I brought you some ginger tea," Cas interrupted quietly. "Do you think you might be up to a sip or two? It will calm your stomach."

"No," Jo mumbled stubbornly into Dean's chest.

"Yes," Dean countered, reaching for the steaming mug Cas offered. "We're having a baby," he added, as he held the mug to Jo's chapped lips.

"Yes, I know." Cas quirked one eyebrow. "You didn't?"

Dean huffed lightly. "You did?"

"I thought it rather obvious."

Dean met his eyes over the top of Jo's blonde head, felt the physical weight of the wistfulness in Cas' words. Wondered what it would take to convince the other man to allow him to share his long held burdens; knew it was probably foolish to want to. "Want to help me get her into bed?"

Cas nodded and took the mug, helping the two to their feet and following when Dean guided Jo into the bedroom. Dean urged her onto the oversized mattress and pulled the blankets up to her neck before climbing in after her. When Cas stared down at them, perplexed, Dean reached out a hand, tugging hard when Cas took it, tumbling him onto the bed with them.

"I'm staying right here for the rest of the year," Jo murmured, burrowing deep under the covers.

Dean wrapped an arm around her, blankets and all, and grinned sardonically. "You don't think _Detective Henriksen_ might have an issue with that?" He yawned contentedly when Cas finally seemed to understand that this was a thing that was happening and relaxed behind him, settling a great, dark wing over the trio in a protective curtain. "We already know his bloodhound skills are medal-worthy."

"You have about two hours to get that out of your system before I feel more like myself," Jo warned faintly, voice waning as she fought sleep.

"I'm not worried," Dean lied, kissing her temple and listening to her shallow breaths, quiet and even. _Victor,_ he scowled. Motherfucker better do right by Jo or Dean was going to break more than his nose this time.

"There is a part of this story I am missing," Cas said softly, lips warm against Dean's cheek.

"Mmm," Dean nodded drowsily. "Tell you later."

"I'm not asleep yet." Jo's voice was muffled under the cotton and wool.

Dean grinned and squeezed her. His forearm peppered with goosebumps as Cas began to draw circles on the back of his hand, light, ticklish touches, until Dean caught the fingers in his own, linking them.

All three occupants were sound asleep when the bedroom door was flung open.

Sam glanced at the bed and then at the open door to the left, shower and sink clearly visible. "Oh, thank God," he muttered and crossed the room in a few long strides.

Cas grunted into Dean's back. "You get used to this?"

Dean laughed, the sound husky with sleep. "Eventually."

…

When Gabriel peered through the cracked door midmorning, he stared, speechless. There was a small mound at the edge of the mattress that was plainly Jo, pale locks of long, blonde hair spilling onto the pillow. Sprawled across the foot of the large bed was a lanky Sam Winchester, feet dangling over the edge, his sculptured back bare and glowing in the morning light.

And lazily kissing, as though they were the only two people in the universe, much less this room or the bed, were Dean and Cas. Gabe blushed at the quiet focus in Cas' eyes as he brushed the hair from Dean's forehead and grazed his lips along the jagged line of scars.

"Oh my God, Dean, Jo's _right there,_" Sam complained, startling Gabe when he flopped onto his back and slapped at the foot poking him in the side; it had to be Dean's, it was the one without claws.

"She's asleep," Dean countered easily, closing his eyes and sighing happily when Cas began to nibble on his ear.

"Well, I'm not!" Sam sat up and threw his pillow at the pair. He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and spotted Gabriel hovering just outside the door. "Hey Gabe."

"Two hundred years of isolation," Cas kissed the words into the skin under Dean's jaw. "And within twenty-four hours, not an ounce of solitude."

Dean smiled because he didn't think the words qualified anywhere near an objection.

Gabe cleared his throat. "I prepared breakfast," he said bluntly, wincing when the words echoed, too forceful and loud. He very carefully avoided looking at the foot of the bed when a tall figure stood and stretched.

And stretched.

Dean chuckled and pushed gently at Cas' shoulders, ducking under a strong arm when it tried to box him in. "Awesome. I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry," Cas and Sam said at the same time.

Cas smiled cautiously at Dean's brother; they had yet to have a real conversation. Which seemed rather superfluous considering they had just shared a blanket.

Sam gave him a wink, as if he were reading Cas' mind.

"Can everyone please shut the hell up?" Jo complained, throwing the blankets off her head. "And I'm starved."

Dean clapped his hands together. "So we eat!" He grabbed Cas' face between his palms and smacked a perfunctory kiss on his lips before scooting off the bed.

Jo watched the simple exchange of affection and traded glances with Sam.

Sam shrugged in response, as if to say, _Whatever makes Dean happy._

…

Dean shoved Cas through the bedroom door, closing and locking it behind them.

Cas ticked one eyebrow upward. "Are we hiding from someone?"

"Shhh," Dean shushed him, pressing his good ear against the door. When he heard nothing he turned with a frustrated grunt. "You were right. We have _no_ privacy in this house."

"I thought you liked the presence of your family," Cas said smoothly, letting Dean pull him close.

"Not when it means I can't get you naked," Dean grumbled.

Cas' chuckle was cut off by a heated kiss.

In far too few seconds, Dean was panting with want, desire looping around them both like a physical presence; losing control had never been so easy before, nor so consciously allowed. "God, the things you do to me," he whispered.

"Not even half," Cas growled, pushing him against the door with a _thunk_. "Not even a quarter of what I'd like to."

Dean had to remind himself to breathe when Cas went to work on his neck and collarbone with a vengeance, divesting him of his t-shirt in short order.

Cas looped the chain around Dean's neck over his index finger once, twice, and pulled him off the door, backing towards the bed. "How likely are we to be interrupted in the next two hours?"

Dean swallowed. _Two hours?_ "Seventy percent chance of Sammy," he quipped lightly, hoping Cas couldn't hear the quiver in his voice.

Cas heard it; he smiled dark and sultry.

The back of his knees bumped the bed and the tags hanging from the chain around his fingers flickered in the afternoon light. "Did you know originally ID tags were circular?" he murmured, tugging on the chain again to bring Dean's mouth next to his. He brushed their lips together.

It took a moment for the words to register and Dean pulled back. "Really?"

Cas nodded unwinding the chain until Dean's identification tags nestled in his palm. He traced over the embossing with a fingertip. "The bodies of nearly half those lost in the Civil War remain unidentified today." His eyes were far away when he looked at Dean. "Something needed to be done to ensure those left behind in the aftermath did not wonder for eternity about their loved ones."

_Eternity._ There had been the barest of pauses before the word.

Dean smoothed his hands up Cas' sides, soothing the troubled tension he could feel coiling beneath the golden skin. Cas had never gone to war but he had been left behind. "Why circular discs?" he prompted softly.

Cas shrugged lightly and gave Dean a sad smile, recognizing the question was distraction technique but gladly accepting it. "I'm not sure. Perhaps it was a simple case of aesthetics. If I remember correctly, the round tags were initially a commercial venture that the military adopted after the turn of the century."

Dean stared. The turn of the century to Cas meant the turn of the century before the last one.

Cas was born before the turn of the century _before that._

"Are you all right?" Cas asked, eyes sparkling in amusement.

"Yeah," Dean breathed. "Just." He swallowed. "You've seen so much. Peace, war… all of it."

Cas inclined his head in agreement and settled the tags gently in the center of Dean's chest. He followed the movement with a kiss over Dean's heart.

Dean buried his fingers in his hair and tugged that shapely mouth back to his, and if there was a hint of desperation in the way their lips moved together, neither was going to admit it, not now.

Cas let Dean push him onto his back, straddling his hips and grinning down at him smugly. Cas frowned. "I don't know if I like the look on your face."

"Oh yeah?" Dean smirked. "And why is that?" He slipped the top button of Cas' pants free of its closure.

"You appear to be scheming, although without much forethought or planning if the tremble in your fingers is to be read as an indication of your nervous state."

"Shut up," Dean protested on a choked laugh. "I'm steady as a rock," he lied, reaching forward to cover Cas' mouth with his palm when he opened it to speak again. "And not one more criticism from you, flyboy, or you don't get your treat."

Cas held up three fingers. _Scout's honor. _

Dean released his mouth and went back to work on his pants.

"Don't call me that," Cas said first, with a glint in his eyes. "And what treat is this? I do not remember negotiation of prize size or quality?"

"Nuh uh," Dean shook his head, smiling at the fact that yet again Cas wasn't wearing any underwear. The man was as naked as the day he was born under these pants. Sometimes Dean's life was good. "You share historically factual firsthand tidbits with me, and I will reward you suitably for each."

Cas' eyes darkened at Dean's pretty speech pattern. "You're fucking with me."

Dean's laughter rang out loud and clear across the large room. "Don't you even dare," he warned, leaning forward and smacking a quick kiss to Cas' mouth. "And I'm not _fucking_ with you." He splayed open Cas' fly with a happy sigh. "Now, go."

He waited semi-patiently as Cas studied him seriously from under a thick curtain of black lashes.

"You enjoy war stories?" Cas finally asked.

"I'm a soldier, of course I like war stories," Dean responded dryly. His fingers were begging to dig into the divots below Cas' hips but he restrained himself, the delay escalating his yearning as much as Cas'.

"May I touch you in this game?" Cas asked primly, hands hovering over Dean's denim-clad thighs.

"Legs only," Dean said, making up the rules as he went. He was starting to sweat.

Cas carefully considered Dean's handsome face in the light streaming through the windows. His eyes hinted at the lush moss under the cypress by the water and Cas remembered with a sudden, vivid clarity pulling Dean's heavy, lifeless body from the bog such a short time ago.

His full lips had been tinged purple from lack of oxygen, his cheeks pale and cold. The rain had pounded into both of them, a slick glossy sheen over Dean's still face, rendering his hair darker than the gold tipped strands Cas now knew.

In that moment beside the rising bayou, Cas had never wanted to know the color of someone's eyes more. Every cell in his body had startled to life in an instant, screaming with an oddly familiar yet impossible recognition, a claim as sure and as bold as a knight in joust for a maiden's heart.

He smiled, knowing Dean would bristle at being placed in such a passive role, even if only in Cas' romantic musings. Or maybe, he thought, revising, Dean was more aptly the enemy at the gate. Dying, breathless, heart-stoppingly gorgeous, his mortality was the fault of a bitter and selfish beast, as had been the deaths of dozens of souls preceding him. And Dean's first gasping breath on Gabriel's bed, a sound more precious than any heard on this land in two hundred years, had laid siege to Cas' ironclad heart.

As Cas lowered his hands to Dean's thighs, he gladly surrendered.

"So?" Dean prodded, wiggling his butt over Cas' hips.

Cas tightened his fingers in the denim, Dean's innate sense of playful youth chasing away his melancholy. Again. "I dutifully request permission for visual assistance for my first presentation."

"I'm not getting naked yet, you perv," Dean winked.

Cas chuckled and easily set Dean off of his lap, ignoring Dean's grunt of protest. "Tempting, but not what I meant." He fastened up his pants and crossed the room to a large trunk against the wall.

Dean watched him scrounge around, wings trailing the floor behind him, still so intriguingly alluring, sleek dark feathers calling to Dean to touch and taste. He had a brief flash of guilt when he thought for a split second that he would hate to see them go if the curse were actually broken. _When_ the curse was broken.

Cas returned, dumping an armful of yellowing newspapers circa 1944 on the bed.

Dean coughed, waving a hand in front of his face. "Did you just drop a bunch of dusty old newspapers in the middle of our bed?" His toes curled at his phrasing the instant the words slipped free of his tongue.

Cas sniffed haughtily, unaware or uncaring of Dean's slip. "I did." He slid easily in place beside Dean, kissing his neck. "I thought I could read to you," he said, voice husky.

Dean closed his eyes, pulse jumping. _That goddamn voice. _"You're a cocktease, Castiel Goodwin, and you damn well know it."

"Mmmm, but I promise to make it good." He kissed Dean's neck again and pulled one of the newspapers closer, began to read the lead story on the front page.

Dean stopped listening after the second paragraph, overcome by the graceful, melodic tones and the pretty shape of Cas' mouth as it formed the words.

Cas stopped reading after the fourth; he didn't have much choice. Dean's tongue was coaxing his into a silky, wet dance and there were hungry hands pulling at his skin. He did insist on gently placing the stack of newspapers on the floor before Dean rolled them to the middle of the bed.

After, as they lay nestled together, skin clammy and overheated in the humid, still day, breath mingling from mouths unwilling to stray too far from one another, Dean whispered, "I think I can pay attention now."

Cas laughed, the sound filling Dean's lungs as Cas pushed him to his back. "Later. First I'd like to tell you the story of a battle known as Operation Torch. No visuals."

"Oh God," Dean moaned.

…

"Is your phone charged?"

"Did you charge it?" Cas asked patiently.

Dean frowned. "That's not the point."

Cas tilted his head. "If I know you have already taken care of something, why would I attempt to duplicate your efforts?"

"Don't use that fancy logic on me to try and turn my words around," Dean growled, grabbing Cas by his hips and yanking him closer.

"Should I close my eyes?" Sam asked dryly, forearms resting on the hood of the wrecker.

"Shut up," Dean threw over his shoulder.

"Dean I'm fairly sure the hardware store will close at five, which means we need to get a move on. _Someone_ 'napped' all afternoon," Sam said pointedly, air quoting for emphasis.

Dean felt the tips of his ears burn but he didn't care because Sam's words and easy acceptance of Cas were too welcome, too necessary. He hadn't realized how much he wanted Sam to be here, to share all of this, until he had shown up and been so patently _Sam_ about everything. "Jealous?" he smirked.

"Took you long enough," Sam scoffed at Dean's delayed response and opened the driver's side door. "I'm getting in. Do your all fired best to gross me out and then get in the damn truck or get left behind."

Dean resisted the urge to flip him off and kept his eyes on Cas. "We won't be gone long."

"As you have already told me. Twice." Cas frowned. "Are you all right? I assure you Jo will be fine here with Gabriel and I."

"No, yeah," Dean huffed. "I'm fine. I mean, you'll be fine. Hardware store, then Benny's then back. Couple hours, tops."

Cas didn't answer but pushed Dean toward the wrecker door as Sam turned the key and the engine roared to life. "And we will be here on your return."

Dean climbed into the passenger side and waved through the glass as they pulled away, watching the winged silhouette shrink in the mirror until it was a speck on the horizon. Something scratched at the back of Dean's mind, a misstep, off kilter; that crazy sixth sense that had served him well all his years in a war zone, but heck if he could figure out what it was trying to tell him now. His phone vibrated in his hand, the accompanying too cheery melody excessively loud in the quiet cab. He ignored Sam's teasing glance as he dialed down the volume.

**_Cas:_**_ I miss the shape of your backside climbing the hill in front of me as I return to the house._

Dean grinned. _I do have a nice ass, _he typed.

**_Cas: _**_Among other attributes. _

**_Dean: _**_Like my witty repartee. _

Sam rolled his eyes when Dean snorted a moment later.

**_Cas_**_: Did Sam provide assistance with that spelling?_

**_Dean: _**_No flyboy, in the 21st century we have autocorrect. No one can spell._

**_Cas:_**_ That actually explains much about society. _

**_Cas:_**_ And don't call me that._

Dean typed a quick response, tilting the phone slightly away in case Sam happened to glance over, heart skipping at the three words before he hit send.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day," Sam mused without elaborating.

"Just drive, Professor," Dean ordered, but his tone was affectionate and he couldn't quite hide his smile.

…


	13. Chapter 12

_The hunter watched the creature fly over the slow-moving water of the bayou, an impossibly wide stretch of wings gliding easily across the boggy marsh. It had stood in the dusty dirt road long after the truck had disappeared around the far bend towards town. _

_He had seen the winged man once before; it had pulled him out from under his capsized fishing boat and left him lying on the riverbank, waiting to meet Death, heaving brackish water from his lungs. In truth, the hunter had convinced himself he had hallucinated the experience, but he had never stopped scanning the sky overhead._

_And today was his lucky day._

_…_

"Cas?"

Cas turned to find Jo hovering in the kitchen doorway. "Jo," he smiled hesitantly, clutching a container of blue water. "Are you feeling better?"

Jo's eyes slid quickly away then back, and she worried her bottom lip between her teeth. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just," she shrugged self consciously. "Just when I wake up, you know?"

Cas nodded, his gaze falling to the floor thoughtfully. "My wife was sick every morning at six a.m. on the dot." He laughed softly. "It was a great annoyance for her."

Jo crossed the kitchen, settling her back against the sink as she watched Cas slowly agitate the sediment in the bottom of the pitcher. "You had children?"

"A daughter, Clara." Cas shook his head. "She was very young when everything happened. Her mother—" he stopped abruptly, the words stuck in his throat.

"You don't have to tell me." Jo's voice was husky when he didn't continue.

They watched the crystals dissolve as Cas continued to stir. When the whirling tornado of colorful liquid slowed to a lazy spin around the glass, he tapped the wooden spoon on the lip before laying it in the sink.

"What's the water?" Jo asked when the silence stretched between them unnecessarily long.

Cas palmed the bowl of the pitcher, cradling it against his stomach. "Rose food. Dean brought it from the hardware store a few days ago."

Jo smiled then, a genuine fondness lighting her face. "Dean's really just a big old marshmallow. His tough exterior has always been a front."

Cas laughed quietly. "I could have used your wisdom when he first arrived."

"Did he give you a hard time?" Jo leaned her elbow on the counter, chin in hand. "He can be a real smartass when he puts his mind to it."

"You could say that." Cas' eyes twinkled in amusement, remembering. He gestured to the back door. "Would you like to go with me? To the garden?"

"Um, sure," Jo said with a grin. "Are we going to trade more secrets? I've been stockpiling ammunition on Dean since he found the first hairs in his pits."

Cas threw back his head and laughed and Jo's breath caught in her throat. The afternoon light glinted off of the feathers on his back and the ruddy tint of his cheeks made a spectacular backdrop for the tint of his eyes. He was visually stunning, and for the briefest second, she envied Dean.

"I would love to hear more about a young Dean Winchester," Cas said with a wide smile, holding the door open for her to pass.

Jo proved an amiable companion as Cas fed and pruned the roses. She was highly inquisitive and charmingly sardonic, and more than once he found himself laughing out loud at her dry musings. She was currently burying her nose in the largest blossom on the bush, inhaling the lush fragrance.

"Man, roses don't smell like this anymore."

She jumped when Cas reached below her and snipped the bloom from the bush. He handed it to her with a smile. "Cas," she breathed, taken aback by the gesture. "But," she waved to the bush. "There are hardly any flowers left."

Cas pushed her hands around the stem, breaking off a stray thorn before it nicked her palm. "I want you to have it." He smiled and then bent and snipped another budless stem from the plant. "And with this, we'll try to give you a fresh root. You may take it home and plant it in the spring. Perhaps she just needs a change of scenery to find new life."

Jo took the cutting from Cas, holding it gently, heart breaking at the loss and looming dread she knew were hidden in Cas' words. She threw her free arm around his neck, catching him off guard. "Thank you, Castiel."

Cas quickly found his balance and accepted her hug, patting her gently on the back. "You're welcome, Jo."

Jo sniffed when she stepped back and swiped at her eye. "Oh God, I'm always leaking these days," she laughed. "I'm so sorry."

"You're hormonally imbalanced as your body creates a new life. There is no need for apologies. And," he said, steering her toward the house. "I find you charming."

Jo snorted softly. "I'm so telling Dean you said that."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Chickenshit."

"Absolutely."

…

"You have never had meringue like this," Dean enthused as the overhead bell tinkled.

"So just to clarify. Since you were stranded," Sam stepped aside to let a patron leave the diner, pink box in hand. "Have you done anything besides have sex and eat pie?"

"I'm not answering that," Dean replied with a smirk. He nodded when Maisy waved from her perch on the corner of a booth, order book in hand, pencil between her teeth.

The diner bustled with energy and smelled amazing; it looked like they had made it just in time for the dinner rush.

"You want to sit and grab a bite?" Dean asked hopefully, eyes wide and innocent.

Sam chuckled. "Pass. Jo would murder us in our sleep." He patted Dean's back conciliatorily when his face fell. "But we can get something to go." He watched as Dean greeted no fewer than four customers by name before sliding onto a stool at the counter and waving to Benny through the cutout kitchen window. "You've been here less than two weeks."

"Yeah? So?" Dean slid him a menu across the countertop. When Sam raised an eyebrow, he shrugged. "Couple by the door. Madge and Dennis, married thirty-four years, raise goats. Benny buys their homemade cheese and they provide milk to a couple of families in town with lactose intolerant babies."

Dean swiveled slightly to the right. "Girl studying in the corner. Lucinda Wright. Wants to be a dentist. Raised by a single mom who works two jobs, sometimes three, just to pay their house payment after dad ran off with the checkout girl from the corner E-Z Mart. Benny feeds her dinner and she has a safe place to study while mom's working." He nodded toward the kitchen. "Speaking of, Benny the cook owns the diner. He's been in love with Andrea since they were fifteen. She married someone with more zeros in the bank. Joke's on her though, rich hubby drank through their cash and ran their farm into the ground. She won't leave him, but she strings Benny along anyway."

Sam shook his head. "You're a savant."

Dean grinned. "And waitress Maisy there," he pointed to the redhead who had waved at them when they entered. "Well, she's got it bad for Benny, because that's the way love works, Sammy. There are no fairytales and everyone is busy looking over the proverbial fence."

"The heart wants what the heart wants," Sam murmured.

Dean shrugged and flipped open his menu, his earlier uneasiness creeping up his spine. "I guess." Suddenly he was less hungry and more anxious to get back to Godwyne. When a blonde waitress stopped to flirt with Sam while she took their order, he pulled his phone from his pocket.

**_Dean: _**_At the diner, then we'll be on our way. Pie?_

He didn't have to wait long for a response.

**_Cas:_**_ I recently found I am partial to lemon meringue and blueberry. _

**_Cas: _**_Mixed. _

Dean smiled softly. _I recently found I'm partial to a lot of things. _ His heart turned over, imagining Cas' intense gaze as he studied the small black phone, how he would smile when he read Dean's words, how the concentrated set of his mouth would firm the angles of his jaw as he composed a reply.

**_Cas: _**_ Me too._

Dean exhaled. _Yeah,_ he thought. _Me too._

Dean glanced around at the diners eating dinner, laughing, chatting with their neighbors. Living. Since he had left earlier in the wrecker with Sam, the nagging, brutal knowledge that what were potentially his last moments with Cas were methodically ticking away. So what the _hell_ he was doing sitting in this diner?

He studied Sam's easy laughter as he teased the young waitress and wondered, for the first time in his life, what it would be like if he didn't live in the same city as his brother.

Thought, for the first time in his life, about taking something only for himself.

…

Cas was watching a strange truck slow to a stop behind the wrecker on the road when he felt the presence at his side in a flash of dizzying recognition.

It had been nearly two hundred years to the day, but there were some things one never forgot.

He turned from the window, resigned. "Apolline."

The redhead smiled slowly. "Castiel." The words were a purr, rolling over her tongue in seductive tones. When she reached for his face, he drew back and she laughed. "Still playing hard to get, I see."

"What are you doing here?" Cas ground out through clenched teeth, shifting, hoping to obscure the view of the road from the bedroom window.

_Dean._

"I've come to collect, angel, what do you think?" She side stepped him neatly when he tensed, leaning into the window frame and running a finger down the center pane of glass as she gazed down at the figures across the bayou. "He's very beautiful, Castiel."

"You will have nothing to do with Dean." Cas' words brooked no challenge.

He would die first.

Apolline smiled softly, tapping a manicured nail against the old painted wood. "Too late." When she heard Cas' wings erupt and expand behind her, she shrugged nonchalantly and turned, leaning a well-curved hip on the sill, her pastel uniform drawn snug across her lap. "You are the one who couldn't keep him occupied, my melancholy beast."

Cas' murderous glare faltered when he met her smug gaze, confused.

"Did you enjoy the pie?" she asked with a wink. Using Cas' shock as leverage, she stepped quickly into his personal space and kissed him once, hard. The cheap plastic pin of her nametag dug into his chest.

Cas shoved her back, dragging a hand across his mouth. "What do you want?" His laugh was dark, voice shaking when he spoke. "Clearly your curse is intact."

"Mmmm," she inclined her head, delicately touching her lower lip, reddened from the scrape of tooth and stubble. "Can you not feel it?" She nodded to Cas' wings. "Could you fly as far this morning as yesterday? Or the day before?"

Cas frowned, eyes narrowing on her pretty face. "What do you want?" he repeated.

"I want to make a deal," she said, dropping all pretense of flirtation, her eyes hard. "The curse weakens but it holds. And you are running out time."

"So?" Cas pulled at his hair in a sudden intense and frenzied frustration. "So? Do you think I don't know this? That I don't fear that man will drive away with his brother in the next few days and here I will remain? Like _this?_ For all eternity? Only now, instead of backbreaking loneliness, I'm to be left with my heart shredded in pieces at my feet?"

"He loves you." Apolline's quiet words quelled his fit of pique. "In spite of both of us, all the burdens we have carried these long, lonely years, he loves you." She contemplated Cas' handsome face. "Yet, he remains unsure and I believe it is his inner confusion that has muddied the intent of my youthful spate of sorcery."

Cas stopped, frozen in the center of a patch of sun, emotions spiking in turmoil at her confusing speech. He swallowed his unrest and forced himself closer, drawn to the odd warmth and fondness in her tone. "Why _are _ you still here, Apolline? What holds you?"

A corner of her mouth lifted, sultry, and she cupped his face briefly before pulling his head down and kissing him again. When he didn't wipe her taste from his lips, she smiled sadly. "I have often wished these many years that it could have been me, Castiel," she whispered.

Cas gingerly pulled her palm from his cheek. "Then it is a shame we were never lovers. Perhaps this could have been over long ago."

Apolline laughed, the sound soft and surprisingly girlish. "I never thought I'd live to see the day." She shook her head. "Nay, my heart belongs to another. As does yours." She turned back to the window. "I am fascinated by your Mr. Winchester, though. How like you, angel, to find your heart's desire in one so clearly ill suited."

Cas joined her at the window and they watched as Dean and Sam talked to their guest. The trio knelt beside the river, studying its depth. Benny threw a stone and it skipped across the slow-moving water before disappearing into the weeds that lined the marsh.

"Why are you here? Now?" Cas watched her face transform when she smiled.

"Misery loves company, Castiel." When she reached for him again, he leaned his cheek away and her eyes narrowed. "I was young, naïve, when I cast my first spell. And I was still quite youthful and full of hubris when I blessed you with these." She dug her fingers into the thick tuft of feathers over his shoulder and he flinched. "I didn't realize that I had tied us together, you and I, as surely as if I had cursed myself. So long as you remain thus, I remain to watch."

Cas' eyes widened in understanding. "You've been here all along."

Apolline inclined her head slightly. "In a fashion. I do possess the luxury of travel. I would have lost my mind had I been constrained to these walls and this land. My latent apologies for that, of course."

"Fuck you," Cas growled.

She smiled. "Now you're getting warmer."

Cas wrenched his shoulder from her grasp. "What do you want?" he asked again, nerves rattling in his stomach, dread weighting his bones.

"I want Benjamin Lafitte." When Cas didn't respond, Apolline flushed and she waved at the small figures on the road. "Nothing has worked, Castiel. No magic, no spell, no curse. He is immune and I can only assume it is because I truly love him." Her eyes shone and in that instant Cas saw a vulnerability that surprised him. Her gaze was far away as she considered the men by the river. "I had never loved before," she trailed off.

"What has that got to do with me? Or Dean? Or this?" He gestured to the wings trailing behind him on the old wood floor.

Apolline's eyes snapped quickly to life. "I need to remove the obstacle to my affections. My heart's desire, desires someone else. If she were gone, my path would be cleared." Her mouth thinned into a harsh line, and the effect was aging. "It has to be."

Cas waited, his trepidation so pronounced it filled his head with an anxious buzzing.

"We all have obstacles, Castiel. Dean's is fear. Yours is a curse. Father Gabriel's is faith." She tapped the window again. "Benny's is the hunter who married his former lover. Mine is a girl who no longer deserves his love. The real irony is how neatly intertwined we've all become."

"I don't understand."

"I need you to be the butterfly's wing, to start the chain reaction." She shrugged. "I'm sorry, but I can see no other way. I had hoped…" she faltered and fell silent.

"And if I refuse?" But Cas already knew the answer. She didn't have to articulate it, the feeling was the same as before, a sinking sensation of despair and agonizing truth; he was going to lose in this game, and the price would be great.

"Then I will take what little power remains humming through my blood and turn Dean Winchester's heart." She cocked her head. "Could you bear to know he loves another? Watch while I break him apart and spend the rest of his days tormenting his soul?"

"Dean would never be so susceptible to your darkness, not even with magic. He would never fall for your limited charms," Cas spat, but his heart raced in fear and he prayed she couldn't hear it. _Dean._ Dean, so kind and gentle, prone to nightmares, lover of cars and Sam and pie.

Dean, who had brought light back into this dark house, and into his life.

"You're wrong," Apolline laughed bitterly, the sound cold and dark, echoing off of the tall ceiling. "I can make anyone love me." Her eyes glittered sharply in the dim room. "Except the one I truly want."

"I will accept that risk, " he said, quietly decisive. "My answer is no." This had to end; if it meant giving up a life with Dean and spending eternity locked inside this house, these wings, so be it. He had been preparing himself to lose Dean since the moment he dragged his lifeless body from the water. He thought of Clara, her young face crumpled and tear-stained in the candlelight as her mother carried her from the house. Her cries had haunted his dreams for many years. He would never jeopardize another soul, nor destroy another heart, no matter the cost to his own fate. "I won't help you, Apolline."

"I thought you might say that," she said softly. She pointed to the far corner of the property, to the woods behind Clara's rose. "The hunter waits there even now, Castiel. He waits for you, _wants_ you. You would be his most prized trophy." Her eyes darkened, and she tilted her head thoughtfully. "A soldier, pure of heart," she whispered as she watched the men at the water's edge. Dean threw back his head and laughed, joyous, carefree, his hand on Sam's shoulder. "What would he do, Castiel, if he thought you were in danger? How much would he sacrifice in order to save you?"

Cas sucked in a quick breath, awash in an icy resignation. "What do you want me to do?"

Apolline smiled serenely, satisfied. "Fly, Castiel. I need you to fly."

…

Gabriel met him at the back door. "Where are you going?" he asked, confused. "Dean's friend is still at the water, he could see you." He tried to urge Cas back into the house.

"Father, I need you to do me a favor," Cas said solemnly. His face was stony and cold, the warmth and life that had flourished and grown over the past two weeks extinguished.

Gabe's throat closed. "Castiel, what is it? What happened? You're scaring me."

"I am leaving, and I will not be back." Cas clasped Gabe's hand. "You have been a good friend, Gabriel," he said. At the last moment, his voice caught with emotion and he had to look away. When he glanced down again his expression was cool, composed once more. "Get Dean and his family out of here, in whatever manner you can. They must never return." He squeezed Gabriel's hand. "I am sorry, old friend."

"Cas—" Gabe was cut off when Cas shoved past him and shot into the sky. "Castiel!" he shouted, uncaring that Dean and the others would hear him as a feeling of helplessness and panic gripped him.

…

Castiel knew the moment the hunter spotted him, the latent animal side of his senses screaming _predator. _He valiantly fought the urge to flee back to Godwyne, to safety, as he soared over the treetops, each gust of wind taking him farther from home.

He tried to blank his mind, avoid all thoughts of Dean, which proved impossible, since the only thing keeping him on course was the strength of his desire to protect the other man. Dean's voice filled his head: his banter, his laughter, his soft whispers of encouragement as they had learned all the ways they fit together. The quiet conviction when he said _I love you_.

He would never hear that voice, those words, again.

Cas was filled with a longing so intense, he faltered, dipping too low and grazing the tips of the tree line. It was enough to destroy his carefully controlled equilibrium and he fell through the branches, limbs tearing at his chest and arms, until he landed on the forest floor. He lay in the woods amid the decaying rot of leaves and moss and bark, heart thudding erratically, lungs heaving, momentarily dazed. He struggled painfully to his feet, shaking the debris from his wings before he dug the phone from where he had tucked it into the waistband of his pants.

His fingers trembled as they found the letters, as he righted the only regret he had left.

_I love you**. **I should have told you. _

He pressed the tiny arrow and then took to the skies.

…

Dean heard the tinny echo of Gabe's shout and saw the dark figure streak across the sky.

"What the?" Benny exhaled, shading his eyes with one hand. "What the hell was that?"

Dean glanced at Sam, expression grim. "I think we'll have to talk barges and backhoes another time, Benny, but thanks for coming out to check the crossing for us."

Benny turned to Dean with a wry expression. "Nice try, brother, but a man just flew over your house."

Dean opened his mouth to protest when Sam interrupted.

"You've seen him before." Sam nodded when Benny didn't deny it. "I think probably most of you have seen him before, am I right?"

"What?" Dean looked between the men, confused. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Benny chuckled. "And risk sounding like a lunatic to the first decent crawfish gigger I've had the pleasure to meet in years?"

Dean huffed a laugh, relief at Benny's confession mingling with the heavy concern settling in his belly. _Where was Cas going?_ "Who else?"

Benny shrugged. "Most people, I 'spect. At least those who live round these parts. This house," his eyes were misty as they surveyed the old mansion, its whitewashed walls turned pink from the setting sun. "It's got some magic about it, don't it."

Dean didn't answer, because it wasn't really a question. "Benny," he began but the other man held up a hand.

"Mind my own business and nevermind my romantic musings, so you can go find your friend. Is that about right?"

"Thanks, man," Dean said, accepting the strong handshake that followed Benny's words. "Call you tomorrow?"

If he had turned two seconds sooner, if Benny hadn't cocked his head at a sound Dean couldn't hear, they might have missed the movement of the hunter in the woods.

Dean's eyes followed the outline of a man as he disappeared into the thick brush. His heart stopped when just as the treecover hid the hunter from their view, the red-gold light of the sun flashed off the narrow object he held pointed at the sky: the barrel of a gun.


	14. Chapter 13

Dean reached blindly for his brother; younger, steadier, the reason Dean had gotten up in the morning for the majority of his life. "Sam."

"Hang on," Sam murmured, gripping Dean's shoulder hard enough to burn. "Gabe's coming."

The former priest was running, and had Dean's heart not been lodged in his throat, choking every emotion but fear from his body, he might have laughed at his uncoordinated form. Gabe stumbled once in the thick grasses, and then once again before he reached the edge of the bayou, red-faced and out of breath.

He started when Jo appeared at his side seconds later, having followed him from the house when she heard his shout.

"Cas," he managed to gasp before he coughed, long and deep.

"Where did he go?" Dean asked, desperation making his tone harsher than he intended.

"He said goodbye." Gabe's face filled with anguish and he was unable to continue. Jo threw her arms around him, meeting Dean's gaze over the slow moving, murky water.

"It was a woman, she had red hair. She was there with him in the bedroom, and then suddenly she wasn't." Jo bit her lip, eyes troubled. "She threatened him. With you."

"Who was she?" Dean frowned. "I don't understand!" He shrugged Sam's hand off his shoulder and stalked to the water's edge. "Gabe, so help me God. Cas' life is in danger." He jabbed his finger at the woods. "A hunter just spotted him, and he didn't seem at all surprised by what he was seeing. Pull yourself together!"

"Apolline," Gabe whispered, looking at Jo with respect. "Where were you?"

Dean turned to Sam with a clenched jaw. "What's he saying?"

"A name, I think," Sam said. "Now he's asking Jo where she was hiding."

Dean scoffed and yelled over the marsh. "Jo could work for the goddamn CIA, padre! You've never met anyone better at eavesdropping or tracking in your entire life."

"Then we need her over here," Benny interrupted. "How do we do that?"

"You can't," Gabe said, shaking his head, strangely calmed after Jo had recounted the overheard exchange. "You don't have time. What day is it?"

"October thirteenth," Sam offered. Dean bristled beside him in impatience.

"Two hundred years," Gabe whispered, letting the misery of a long ago night sweep through him, accepting the pain gladly, because it was almost over. He took a deep breath and focused on the one among them who possessed the power to obliterate a curse. "What would you do to save him?" he repeated Apolline's words.

"Everything." Dean didn't hesitate.

Gabe nodded. "The hunter was part of a trap. It involves you, Benny."

"Me?" Benny's eyes widened in shock. "I…" He faltered and Dean saw the moment recognition filtered across his face.

"Who was it?" Dean urged, abandoning the swamp's edge. Sam read his mind and dug the wrecker keys from his pocket.

"Andrea's husband," Benny said slowly, remorse tingeing his words. He knew Dean would recognize the cruelty the man was capable of. "His land borders the woods."

"Let's go." Dean was already stalking toward Benny's truck.

"Dean!" Gabe shouted. "You bring him back!"

Dean didn't answer, meeting Sam's eyes with determination. "What do you have in the truck?"

"A twenty-two," Sam said apologetically. "Half a box of shells."

"Get 'em. It'll have to do." He looked at Benny, expression dark, anger coloring his cheeks. "You're driving."

…

Cas circled the farmhouse, staying low to afford himself some camouflage. He knew the hunter had fallen behind; his back and neck no longer prickled with the instinct to run. That wouldn't last.

He scanned the grounds for Apolline but saw nothing; the woods were still.

Too still.

The air hung heavy and moist, a tangible thing, and without a breeze the scent of the nearby swamp was thick in the woods. Not a cricket nor cicada chirped in the waning light of dusk; no evening predators stirred to life in the forest, preparing for the night's hunt.

There was only one predator in the forest tonight, and Cas understood that he was the prey.

A surge of anger flooded his system and he descended silently, dropping to his feet amid the soft rot of the woodland floor. It was likely futile, but he was not going to make himself an easy target. If Apolline wanted to play, using Cas and Dean, Benny, Gabe, all of them as pawns, then he could at least make it a challenge. He tucked his wings tight against his back and sank into the deep shadows to wait.

…

Gabe's eyes were a little wild when he grabbed Jo by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. "What else? What else did she say?"

"Gabe," Jo said quietly, gripping his forearms, trying to diffuse his frenzy before he lost all composure.

Gabe's face cleared and he realized his nails were digging into the soft skin of her arms, would probably bruise. He dropped his hands and flushed. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Jo soothed. "Now think. We have to figure out what Apolline meant."

Gabe reached for her hand and turned toward the house, his face settling into firm resolution. "I already know what she meant. The curse is failing."

Jo had to lengthen her stride to keep up. "But Cas still has wings."

Gabe shrugged. "And I have a cold. Do you know in two hundred years I have never once been sick? Not even a sneeze?" They ran up the marble steps, and Gabe had a flash of memory so clear he stumbled. He had once stood in this exact spot and watched his life become a fable. "Tell me again."

"The hunter wants Cas, and she wants Benny, and somehow it's all connected."

Gabe paused at the threshold, frowning. "Apolline is in love," he said slowly. "She has a weakness."

"She said your weakness was faith," Jo replied softly.

Gabe snorted and pulled Jo through the doorway. "Not today it's not."

…

The melodic peal of a text message echoed in the cab, startling the occupants. Dust flew up behind them in whorls of dusky orange and tan, obliterating the landscape in the rearview mirror as they tore down the dirt road toward the neighboring farm.

Dean dug the cheap phone from his front pocket, hands shaking more than he liked as he read the message. He was filled instantly with rage, heart blackened by fear and pending loss, and he gripped the device so tightly it dug into his palm.

"It's not over yet," Sam said quietly, covering the hand holding the phone. When Dean didn't move or respond, Sam squeezed. "Dean. It's not over. Tell him."

Dean breathed slowly in and out through his nose, eyes burning, ears ringing. The phantom tone that had haunted him for years, mocking the absence of sound, built until his vision swam. Stuck between two people, one his oldest and best friend, the other his newest, Dean had nowhere to hide from his feelings in the small cab. Nowhere to gather his thoughts. If these were to be his last words to Cas, he wanted to choose carefully, only the best words, the words of his heart. But there was no space here, no room to expose the secret truth of _Dean Winchester_ that Cas had found so easily and urged to the surface with every hard won smile or cherished touch.

It was baring his soul with no guarantees, walking into battle with no promise of victory.

He began to type as a ragged farmhouse appeared on the horizon.

…

Cas had no idea what to expect as he stalked in concentric circles, closer and closer to the farm. His senses had picked up the presence of the farmer a few moments ago, but he had yet to spot him. There was still no sign of Apolline. In the distance he could hear a vehicle on the road, driving too fast, dirt billowing both ahead and behind and filling the sky above the farmhouse with a thick, brown fog of dust.

He wondered—

A twig snapped under a heavy boot to his right and he hurled himself into the air, no updraft to provide buoyancy for the thick undercarriage of feathers, the tightly packed trees offering little room to expand his wings.

He never noticed the small plastic rectangle fall from his waistband and into the leaves.

It was more a giant leap than a true flight, and when he landed just shy of the yard, Cas was confronted with a shocking vision: himself, standing with wings outstretched at the edge of the sagging, broken steps of the sad little house.

The hunter and the truck emerged from the clog of dirt road dust in the same instant.

The gun was raised and leveled, synchronized, in time, with the strong body that launched itself from the still moving truck.

Before he heard the crack of gunfire, Cas understood Apolline's folly. He prayed to a God he no longer believed in that she was here to see it, even as his head, the forest, his very soul flooded with the impact of the curse disintegrating, breaking him apart, from the inside out.

_Win this heart with love and compassion and grace…_

_Love is a temporary insanity._

_Sometimes your heart chooses for you._

_The one my heart desires, desires someone else…_

Cas fell to his knees in the leaves and moss and stones, powerless, as the only one to ever find him worthy threw himself in front of a bullet to save his wretched, undeserving life.

_I recently found I'm partial to a lot of things._

In that instant, Cas knew true despair: the moment Dean Winchester had walked into his life, the curse had been doomed to fail. But Cas had penance yet to pay.

…

"Shouldn't we be trying to find a way across the river? We're stuck!" Jo was starting to panic. Gabe's unusually stark expression was scaring her and his mumblings about curses and voodoo priestesses had cooled the blood in her veins. She rubbed her arms as a chill ran through her.

"We're not stuck," Gabe replied, pulling an old leather bound book from the bottom of the trunk in Cas' bedroom. When he opened the dusty tome, he smiled grimly at the messily restrung rosary that held an oft-read position between the pages. "I didn't only study carpentry and gardening for the past two hundred years."

Jo shivered at the macabre etchings on the yellowed paper. In her hands she held the fading pink rose Cas had given her. It's scent was still lovely, but the petals were wilting fast, and she instinctively feared the symbolism of its rapid decline.

Gabe slammed the trunk closed and hurried Jo from the room and down the steps, crossing the marble foyer and porch, descending to the worn grass of the yard, as near as he could remember to the exact spot where Cas had fallen all those years ago. "Do you have the rose?" he asked dumbly, suffering a fit of nerves, and Jo nodded, handing it to him. He shook his head. "No, Jo. This has to be you. We need all the magic we can get if this is going to work. And you are a walking, breathing miracle."

"I can't do it," Jo hiccupped in a fresh wave of panic, the first bright tear snaking down her flushed cheek.

"Yes you can," Gabe said fiercely, gripping her arms and squeezing her tight. "I have faith in you, too, Joanna."

He pressed the rosary and the book into her hands and stepped away.

After a deep, shuddering breath, Jo began to chant.

…

Years ago, in his first months in the desert, Dean's unit had been ambushed as they slept. He had been torn from his restless dreams of home by the sooty taste of gunpowder and the coppery smell of blood.

Although it would be years before he would ultimately lose half of his hearing, on that cold, horrific night, Dean had heard nothing at all, that singularly vital sense failing him when he could have used it the most. He had ran from his tent, scrabbling his night vision goggles in place, hands shaking too hard to position his gun. Not even his worst nightmares could have prepared him for this.

Bodies of his friends littered the ground. Through the smoky haze of fire and gun reports, his visual acuity honed in on the enemy figures who had snuck into their midst, who had used the advantage of darkness and chaos to lay waste to their camp. Absent of sound, the tableau of battle became a rich medley of sight and smell and taste. In one brief, astonishing flash of power, when it seemed all hope had been lost, Dean's unit had turned the tide. Something had pulsed through the camp in a rolling ripple, a psychic connection between a brotherhood forged in countless hours of training and shared misery. Dean couldn't see or hear his teammates, but he had instinctively _known_ where they were, and it had been that connection that had ultimately allowed them to gain the upper hand.

It had been unexplainable, a force unrecognizable and never spoken of again.

Magical.

Miraculous.

That night, Dean had accepted there were things in the universe he was not meant to understand.

As he dove from Benny's truck, Dean never heard the sharp crack that split the night air. Not that it would have made any difference. He had but one goal, and in that instant, nothing else mattered.

He saw a figure at the periphery of the yard as the slug tore through his chest and drove him into the hard-packed earth. The body crumpled in tandem with his own and they hit the ground together in a flash of brilliant light that swept through the clearing in a soundless wave.

Dean knew that ripple. He closed his eyes and smiled.

A woman's hysterical screams were the first thing he heard when time sped up and the world found its axis again.

"Dean!"

That was Sam. And the hands pressing too hard on the fiery wound must belong to Sam too. Dean fought to stay awake, spotted a faded floral housedress on the ground beside his head, the scuffed toes of Benny's boots as he cradled a woman in his arms.

Andrea.

Dean felt his consciousness wane.

"Dean. Dean! Stay with me," Sam urged. He slapped Dean's cheek until he saw his brother's vision clear.

"Cas," Dean whispered.

Sam ripped his shirt off and balled it up, shoving it against the rapidly-growing red stain on Dean's chest. "I don't know. It," Sam shook his head grimly. "It was Cas. And then it wasn't."

"Apolline," Dean mouthed. "Curse." His heart clenched hard and he would have doubled over in pain if he could move. He wondered if it was because the organ was fighting to pump its last beats or if his heart knew something his brain wasn't yet allowing him to see.

What happened to a creature more than two hundred years old when time's clock began to tick again?

…

When his knees hit the ground, the rocks bit into the tender skin and Cas nearly smiled. _Pain_. It had been a long time since he had suffered something as simple and pure. Belatedly, he thrust out his wings to break his fall, confused when first his palms and then his shoulder thudded against the decaying leaves.

The wings were gone.

He was unsure if it was Sam's horrified shout or an enraged shriek he recognized as Apolline that finally spurred him to his feet. He struggled to find balance without the heavy appendages weighting him down. He was light. Free. As he lurched across the yard, finding a forgotten rhythm, he knew the moment she spotted him, a telltale patch of scarlet through the trees as she shoved the dazed hunter aside and ripped the gun from his hands.

And still he ran.

Benny's shout of warning was cut off when a dark shadow fell across the yard.

The ground shook from the force of the impact as the creature landed directly in Apolline's path, huge golden brown wings providing a protective shield between she and Cas.

Gabriel took the first bullet square in the chest. He advanced, smiling when the second struck him. Apolline's gaze faltered, unsure. She began to back away from the imposing figure of the former priest until her back hit the trunk of a tree.

They both ignored the hunter as he scrambled away, into the brush.

Apolline screamed in rage. "What have you done?" She swung the butt of the gun at his head and Gabe caught her wrist.

"I am ending this once and for all," he said, voice strong, breaking over the peaceful night with a latent power. He yanked the gun from her hand and easily bent it in half.

Apolline blanched when she looked over Gabe's shoulder and saw the fear and loathing on Benny's face, his arms still cradling an old lover. It was though a string had been pulled, releasing the power from her veins, and she sank to her knees in defeat.

Cas dropped beside Dean in the grass, hands running over his arms, his shoulder, skirting the would. He cupped his jaw and gently turned his face. "What have you done?" he asked miserably, throat burning, chest taut with fear.

"It was my turn," Dean whispered, breath rattling in his chest. He coughed and the sound was too wet, too thick. "How'd I do?"

"I would kill you myself if I didn't love you so damn much," Cas managed, fury and fear and relief all wrapped up in an exasperated tangle of love so deep and encompassing it took his breath away. He pushed Sam's hands away to inspect the wound, lifting the makeshift bandage that covered the neat hole of the entrance wound. A quick brush of his palm across Dean's back revealed no torn flesh to indicate an exit.

Dean grinned weakly, reading the fear and wanting nothing more than to vanquish it. If the fuzzy edges around his vision and the slowing thud of his pulse were anything to go by, he didn't have a lot of time. "Kiss me, stupid. I just saved your fake life."

Cas huffed but obliged, a salty, soft brush against Dean's dry lips before he glanced up as he felt Gabe's approach. The priest was a vision, his new form vibrating with power and light.

Sam stared. "Holy shit."

Jo raced into the clearing, thrashing through brush and limbs as she escaped the cover of the woods. "I thought you were going to give me the all clear?" she complained, panting and out of breath. She grinned when she saw Sam's expression.

"I was going to," Gabe insisted. He ruffled his feathers self-consciously.

"Apolline?"

Gabe glanced back at the tree line, but the woman had disappeared. "Powerless. And apparently missing."

"That was my waitress," Benny said, finding his voice. "My waitress was, is," his mouth snapped shut. "What the fuck just happened?"

Dean began to cough, cutting off any attempt at explanation. His eyes fluttered closed.

"Dean? Dean, come on, stay with me," Cas pleaded, patting his pale cheeks. "Don't you dare leave me now. I don't want to do this by myself."

Dean groaned and blinked slowly. "Stop smacking me," he rasped. "Do what?"

Cas exhaled in a rush and kissed him hard. "Be human. And don't do that again."

"I'll call an ambulance," Sam said, belatedly remembering the phone in his pocket. He flushed, anxiety suffusing him as Dean struggled to remain conscious, fingers clumsy as he tried to dial.

"How far is the nearest doctor?" Cas asked.

"There's a county ambulance service about thirty miles south. The closest hospital is a little farther," Benny answered grimly.

"We'll have to drive him," Sam said, scrambling to his feet. "Benny."

Andrea backed away from the group, shaking and confused. Benny reached for her and she shrank from his touch. "Where's my husband?" she whispered and Benny's face hardened.

Even after the man had pointed a gun at her, had shot an unarmed man, still she pined for him.

Benny's hand fell to his side and he mentally closed the pages of a long overdue book.

"I'll pull up the truck. Andrea, bring all the towels you can spare. And bottled water if you've got it."

Andrea hesitated and Benny snarled. "Go!"

Gabe knelt beside Cas, a hand on his old friends back, the skin smooth and unblemished, pale from decades hidden from the sun. He reached down and touched Dean's cheek, wondering—

Nothing happened.

Cas looked at him in confusion. "What are you doing?"

Gabe shrugged. "Thought it was worth a shot." He glanced at Sam regretfully. "I must be out of magic."

"You did well, Father," Cas said quietly, not taking his eyes from the uneven rise and fall of Dean's chest. "You saved my life, and I will forever be in your debt."

Gabe flushed and nodded, smiling at Jo. "I had help."

The crunch of gravel drew their gaze and an unmarked sedan nosed between the trees, a single light flashing on the dash.

"Sonofabitch," Sam breathed.

"Victor?" Jo said in surprise, jumping to her feet.

The man climbed from the driver's side and stalked across the yard, mouth downturned in a grim line.

Gabe unconsciously shifted in front of Sam, who grinned down at him.

Victor slapped a sheaf of papers against Jo's chest and scowled at the man lying on the ground. "Why is it always you three and a body?"

Jo read the first line on the top page and bit her lip with a watery smile.

The angry set of Victor's jaw softened at her expression.

Cas cleared his throat. "How fast is that car?"

Victor dragged his gaze from Jo and knelt beside Dean, dark fingers going to the pulse in his wrist before he peeled back the shirt to inspect the wound. "Fast enough. Watch his head." It was all the warning Cas had before Victor lifted Dean's limp body in his arms and was striding toward the car.

"How the hell did you find us?" Sam asked, sliding into the front seat after Jo, accepting the water and towels from Benny through the open door. Cas was ensconced on the back seat, cradling Dean's head in his lap. He motioned for a towel and Sam passed him two, wincing when he saw the bright red stain of Cas' palms.

Victor started the car and slammed his door. "I pegged Jo's phone a couple of months ago." He flipped the switch on the siren and the sound pealed through the night air as he made a u-turn in the yard.

"You lowjacked me?" Jo asked, incensed.

"Damn straight," Victor said under his breath. Jo opened her mouth to protest and Victor calmly took her hand. "For once in your goddamn life, Jo, shut up."

In spite of herself, Jo grinned and nodded.

Sam handed a phone through the window to a hovering and unsure Gabriel. "I'll keep you updated." He frowned at Gabe's grimace. "You do know how to use a cell phone, right?"

"I'll show him the ropes," Benny said, pulling on Gabe's arm to move his wings a safe distance as Victor rammed the pedal to the floor.

After the car was gone, Benny and Gabe were quiet, each lost in their thoughts.

"You want a ride?" Benny finally asked, gesturing at his truck.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing," Gabe said solemnly.

Benny snorted, which made Gabe grin, until both men were laughing, the absurdity of the day begging for release.

"How 'bout I drive this time, and you tell me about my waitress Maisy and all the trouble she's been causing."

Gabe frowned. "The drive is not that long."

Benny chuckled and shook his head. "You can give me the cliff notes version."

Gabe was still trying to figure out who _Cliff_ was when they wedged his wings inside the truck's cab. "This _phone_," he held out the offensive rectangle. "It won't stop buzzing."

Benny sighed and took it from him. He demonstrated how to open the text message feature and read the messages. Six new, from **_Sam._** "Padre, I think you have a new admirer, in the younger Mr. Winchester."

Gabe felt the tips of his ears burn and hoped his hand appeared steadier than it felt as he reached for the phone. "That's because until tonight I mostly fell flat on my face in his presence."

Benny drove thoughtfully for a moment. "I'd say tonight was working for you."

Gabe smiled in surprise. "Yeah?"

Benny nodded. "Yup. Read that first message."

Gabe dutifully pressed the small square buttons as Benny had shown him.

**_Sam: _**_So how long do the wings last?_

Gabe grinned and hoped Benny would show him how to reply when they stopped.

…

Cas was wearing pale teal scrubs and mainlining stale coffee.

Sam watched him pace back and forth in front of the vending machines, surgical booties the only coverings on his feet, and marveled tiredly at how quickly Cas had adapted to being entirely human again. Jo had been the one who had begged the clothing for him from an orderly; Sam had been too beside himself with worry after the surgical team whisked Dean through the swinging doors, his brother's skin as pasty as the sheets that covered his gurney.

"Mr. Winchester?"

Sam stood, heart falling into his stomach as he faced the surgeon. If Jo hadn't grabbed his hand, he didn't know if he could have remained on his feet.

The doctor studied the mismatched group, Cas hovering silently behind Sam, Victor's empty shoulder holster still belted firmly in place. "He's going to be okay."

Sam blew out the breath he'd been holding. "How is he? Did you get the bullet?"

The doctor hesitated. His white lab coat hung loose around his thin frame, the ties of his mask looped over his ears. He appeared simultaneously impossibly young and old beyond his years. His eyes were tired and wary as they regarded Sam, but he gentled his voice. "We couldn't remove it. It's lodged in his heart, but miraculously, there's no bleeding, no tears." He paused and scratched his head. "It's the damndest thing I've ever seen. That any of us have ever seen. It's like it just…stopped."

Jo squeezed Sam's hand when he tensed. "Is it dangerous?"

The doctor shook his head, remorse on his face. "I'm sorry, but if we try to remove it, we would most assuredly kill him. It's almost perfectly positioned in the only inch in the heart it could possibly reside and not affect function." He cleared his throat. "If it moves, it will probably kill him instantly."

"Oh my God," Jo whispered and reached behind her for Victor who appeared immediately at her side.

"But there's nothing to say that it ever will," the doctor assured them. "He'll recover from the minor surgery required to stitch him up and then, for all intents and purposes, be as good as new."

"But," Sam began, stopping when the doctor held up a hand.

"Today is the day you start believing in miracles, Mr. Winchester. I know I just did." He nodded once and strode back through the swinging doors, disappearing in a flash of jade green and white.

"He's going to be okay," Cas said softly.

Sam turned, huffing a laugh when Cas swayed on his feet, nearly face planting on the tile. "Hold on there, cowboy. You might have OD'd on crappy caffeine."

"I can see him?"

"Yeah. As soon as they put him in a room, Cas, you can see him." Sam's smile was wide and infectious. "Holy shit, Cas. We did it! We broke the curse!"

Cas grinned weakly as Sam and Jo began to laugh, dancing a little jig around him in the waiting room.

Victor watched them, eyebrows drawn together in a confused frown. "What curse?" he finally asked.

Jo laughed. "Oh brother. Have I got a story for you."

"Does it involve cheeseburgers? Because I'm starved," Victor complained, puling her narrow hips close and watching her mouth lift at the corners in a happy smile.

"I'm pregnant," she said bluntly.

"Aw, fuck," Sam clapped a palm over his eyes.

Jo's gaze narrowed on Victor's face as she waited for him to respond.

He blinked. "Then I guess it's a damn good thing I got divorced."

Jo smacked him in the shoulder. "Asshole."

Victor grinned, wrestling for control until he had her tucked in the circle of his arms. "Daddy," he corrected. "Jesus," he breathed, eyes glassy as a delayed reaction took hold. "Oh Jesus."

"Chair," Sam warned and Cas pushed an empty one toward the man.

In the end, Jo went to buy the cheeseburgers while Victor sat with his head between his knees. It was in the early hours after midnight before Cas was allowed into Dean's room.

Cas refused to leave his side after that.

Dean was released late the next day, and when the group arrived at Godwyne it was to discover the narrow crossing was passable at last. And that the resident former priest was back to his normal body shape and type. Jo high-fived him for the success of their joint effort, but Sam might have grumbled about missed opportunities under his breath.

Before he went to bed, Sam stuck his head in Cas' bedroom. "You asleep?"

"I would be if everyone would stop popping in to ask me that," Dean said grumpily. "Where's Cas?"

"Where do you think?" Sam grinned, crossing the room and sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed.

Dean rolled his eyes. "With Jo? I'd be jealous if she didn't have that smug bastard sniffing at her heels."

Sam raised his eyebrows as someone behind him cleared his throat.

"That smug bastard is right behind you, isn't he?" Dean closed his eyes in resignation. He never could catch a break.

"Just wanted to say good night," Victor said cheerfully.

"Yeah, good night." Dean blew him a little kiss which Victor ignored.

"You ever going to cut him some slack?" Sam asked, amused.

"Nope." Dean winced when he went to tuck his arms behind his head. _Arms above head equals bad idea. _

"Hey, you know how you asked me to look up Cas' daughter? See if I could find out what happened to her?"

Dean stared at his stupidly smart baby brother. "That was like one day ago. You can't possibly have found out anything in _one day."_

Sam chuckled. "It's the twenty-first century, Dean. With the internet, anything is possible."

Dean started to sit up and Sam pushed him back onto the pillows. He huffed in frustration, glancing at the cracked door. "So did you find something or not?"

Sam nodded, eyes sparkling mischievously. "Oh I found something. You're just not going to believe it."

"Wow, Sam, can you save the lecture for Father Gabe? He probably gets off on that professor schtick."

"Very funny," Sam said drily, but his neck flushed. "I found a record of Clara Godwin, who left New Orleans, and visited her relative for a time in England—Mary Godwin."

"So she survived."

"Dean, Mary Godwin later married Percy Shelley." At Dean's blank look Sam huffed. "Dean. Mary Shelley."

Dean shook his head, although a spark of some distant cell of familiarity—

"Oh my God, Dean. Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein!"

Dean's eyes widened and his gaze flew to the door, where he could hear Cas' gravelly voice as he climbed the staircase, followed by Jo's sweet chuckle. He caught the faintest swath of bright pink as Cas passed her what was likely a rose, just outside the door. He grinned. Cas was probably boring her to death with an explanation of plant rot or rose aphids. "Part man," he murmured, then looked back at his brother. "Nah. Come on, Sammy."

Sam shrugged. "I guess we'll never know. But it seems pretty odd, don't you think? The daughter of a monster, spends time with a woman who writes _the_ definitive horror novel? About a man made of different parts?"

"My boyfriend is Frankenstein," Dean said slowly.

"Your boyfriend, huh?" Sam smiled when Dean blushed but didn't deny it.

"Crazy, right?"

Sam watched Dean, content in the realization that his brother was safe, and happy. Possibly for the first time in his life "Surprisingly, it's not." He shrugged at Dean's doubtful expression. "What? It's not. He fits."

…

Victor and Jo left Louisiana first, then Gabriel and Sam in the wrecker a few days later. A flush of fluids and replacement of fuses and filters, and the Impala had started up with a purr as soon as Dean funneled in fresh gas.

One last goodbye dinner and pie at Benny's, with a promise to stay in touch, and then it was their last night on the bayou.

"What do you think happened to her?" Dean wondered, admiring the curve of Cas' bare shoulder as he stripped off his t-shirt.

"Apolline?" Cas kicked his jeans and boxers off too, grinning at Dean's raised eyebrows. "I don't know. Gabriel was pretty sure he had effectively drained her power with the counter spell. I suppose we'll have to wait and see if she ever reappears."

Dean frowned. "I don't really like the wait and see approach."

Cas settled over him on the bed beside him, sighing contentedly at the first contact of skin on skin. "Mmmm," he hummed noncommittally.

"Sort of like how you feel about this bullet." Dean gingerly touched his bandage.

Cas' face fell. "Dean—"

"I'm sorry," Dean rushed to soothe him. "Oh God, I'm such an asshole sometimes." He kissed Cas hard, wrapping his arms around him. "I'm sorry," he said again.

Cas covered his mouth with his hand. "I love you."

Dean smiled behind the palm before he dragged it from his face. "Yeah, just don't forget who said it first." Cas' expression grew distant, something it had done with regularity throughout the day as they had packed his belongings. "Are you sure you want to leave?" he murmured.

"I want to be wherever you are."

The words were delivered so solemnly resolute that Dean's heart clenched tight in his chest and he said a quick prayer that that damn bullet stayed put.

"Yeah, me too," he said softly, pulling him close for a kiss. He ran his hands down Cas' back, thrilling at the smooth warmth of the muscles clenching under his fingertips. "Not gonna lie," he confessed in a whisper. "I might miss them a little."

Cas snorted lightly. "I'll miss the way you loved them."

"This is good too," Dean breathed, digging his nails into the sensitive skin over Cas' scapula, then sliding around to cup his chin. "Oh man, this is going to sound weird."

"What?" Cas asked, kissing Dean's hand when it passed over his lips. "What is it?"

"You." Dean rolled them over, dipping his head to kiss the hollow of Cas' throat. "In _clothes_," he chuckled, husky and deep. "Fitted buttondown." He nibbled on a delicate collar bone. "Suspenders."

Cas sighed, threading his fingers through Dean's hair.

Dean shifted lower, pressing open lips to Cas' sternum. "Waistcoat," he whispered, mouth widening in a smile when he glanced up to see how Cas was faring.

Cas' eyes were dark, hot, and he bit his lip as he tightened his grip on Dean's neck. "Anything else?" he asked tightly.

"Fuck," Dean exhaled into his skin, dragging his mouth across the ridge of his ribcage, into the divot of his hip. "My jeans," he said around a mouthful of warm skin. "My old t-shirts."

"Dean." Cas tensed when Dean's mouth skirted his erection to lave the opposite hipbone.

Dean suddenly laughed, resting his forehead on Cas' stomach, shoulders shaking with amusement.

"What?" Cas asked in consternation, smiling in spite of his state of arousal and Dean's proximity to the place he most wanted that pretty mouth. "Dean."

"I'm hornier than hell because I want to take you _shopping,_" Dean lifted his head, eyes twinkling.

"That's a…first?" Cas smiled, grazing Dean's jaw with his knuckles. He cupped his handsome face and pulled gently, urging him back up his body.

Dean obliged, until their mouths met, breathing the air between them in between each soft kiss. "That's a first," he finally said in affirmation.

"Dean," Cas moaned when hands swept under him to graze the sensitive skin bracketing his spine.

Dean smiled into his throat, the great dark wings a near tangible thing, their scent, their texture, the responsive way Cas reacted to his touch. Maybe he could still feel them too.

_Thank you,_ he thought.

At the corner of the moonlit yard, behind a curtain of Spanish moss and cypress stood a lone figure. She balanced atop a ledge of native stone, hovering over the swampy water of the bayou.

Apolline smiled up at the bedroom window.

"You're welcome."


	15. Epilogue

They bought a little house outside of Lawrence, a tiny two bedroom cottage with whitewashed stucco walls and a steeply peaked roof. It faced the east and the morning sun would greet the square parcel of land each and every day, rising over the far hillside and bathing the little house in a golden glow.

Usually Castiel was waiting for it, tending the roses that lined the fence, their heirloom fragrance filling the air.

Dean would find him, shears in hand, standing barefoot and shirtless in the dewy morning grass, eyes closed and face lifted to the skies.

Remembering.

Dean would wrap his arms around him, offer a sip from a steaming mug to chase the chill from Cas' bones. There would be birds in the spring and summer, their quiet melody breaking across the quiet country lane that led down to the road, and then on to town.

Cas would welcome the coffee, and the embrace, and the birdsong and the sun, and sometimes he would coax Dean back into their cozy bedroom, persuade him to go to work a little later than the norm.

Cas would name all of the woodland animals that visited their yard, funny, long-forgotten monikers from his earliest memories, although the squirrels were always George, Jr. Eventually they were joined in the little house by an oversized dog of mixed pedigree and a fat tabby cat of questionable disposition.

Still later, a horse would be added to their menagerie and Cas would one day teach their niece, Claire, to ride. Claire, in turn, would teach Cas about everything Dean had forgotten by becoming an adult, like the joy of finding the prize in the bottom of a Cracker Jacks box and sleeping in a tent under the stars and the cool thrill of an orange push-pop in the summer.

There would be a period in which they would long for a child of their own, but fate would never smile that blessing upon them. Still, they were happy and content, and when Sam and Gabe became the proud parents of a precious toddler named Adam, Dean and Cas would spoil the boy as though he were their own.

One day far into the future, Dean would convince Castiel to write down his story, and one day farther still, they would receive a brown, paper-wrapped package in the mail: Castiel's first book, his named carved into the tooled leather cover in gold. It was met with mixed reviews and a modicum of success, the most common complaint being that the story was too fantastical, that such magic could never exist in a world such as this.

But critics had only to venture up the country lane to understand the simple charm and truth behind Castiel's words, to find the magic that lived on and on in the little house. It had traveled with these two hearts over the miles between the bayou and the prairie, enveloping them as they left behind the lives they had known apart and embraced a new one, together.

It would survive all the days they would spend in the little house, cherished moments alone, and others spent with family and friends. It would survive a niece and nephew's childhood, and on and on and on, until those children brought their own children to listen to Uncle Castiel tell the tale of the winged beast in the castle and the crocodile named George.

It would survive until a long forgotten slug would finally wind its way loose in the middle of a cold, winter's night and stop a heartbeat so dearly loved.

And its echo could still be felt when the pair were found together, locked in an eternal slumber, Castiel's heart having ceased in the same moment, forever in sync with Dean's.

Sam would say it couldn't bear the thought of beating alone.

They were buried together as snow clouds gathered in the distance. The flakes would hold off until after the service, beginning to fall as the last car left the lot and blanketing the world in a soft cover of white. In the spring, Jo would plant a cutting from Clara's rose, and for years the blooms would draw many a visitor to the simple headstone that marked their grave.

They would come to admire the beautiful color and fragrance of the flowers, but would stay in thoughtful contemplation of the inscription on the stone, taken from the dedication of Castiel's book.

_Magic need not be fleeting nor transient. _

_It doesn't play favorites or cast stones. _

_It exists in a rainbow, in a caterpillar, in a bumblebee. _

_Magic exists in a newborn's first smile and in the perfect cup of coffee._

_There is magic enough for everyone, if you know where to find it. _

_Once upon a time, magic bound two unlikely hearts. _

_And together, they found forever. _

**_Author's Notes: _**

Dear readers,

I have been a lifetime fan of fairytales, and since falling for Dean and Castiel, this homage to Beauty and the Beast has been playing on the fringes of my mind. I hope you love it as much as I do, and thank you for all the love and kind words as we traversed this tale together.

~Annie

Story notes...

Apolline is played by Abaddon. "Apolline", a common French Creole name, is a play on Apollyon, another name for Abaddon.

The setting for our story was inspired by Bayou Bartholomew, which remains today largely wild and undeveloped. The 1813 storm that ravages Godwyne is loosedly based on factual events in Johnson's Bayou, a Louisiana town that disappeared in one night in 1886.

The present day storm that brings our fated characters together is fiction; the 2013 "I" named hurricane is "Ingrid", but I chose to use an alternate name so as not to tempt Fate.

Born on the Bayou lyrics credited to John Fogerty and CCR. Of course.

Mary Shelley's surname was indeed Godwin, and her stepsister's name was Claire. Claire spent time with Mary during the summer before she penned Frankenstein. It was too good a coincidence to pass up.

Or maybe it wasn't coincidence at all...


End file.
